I  (TO 


MONK  OF  CRTJTA 


BT 
E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 


NEW  YORK  : 
THE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 

BY 
W.  TENNYSON  NEELT. 

All  rights  reservta. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.      "  THE  BLACK-ROBED  PHANTOM,  DEATH " 11 

II.      "  THE  NEW  ART " 32 

in.    "THE  DANCING  GIRL" 89 

iv.    "ADREA'S  DIARY" 47 

V.      "  THE  FAR-OFF  MUTTERING  OF  THE  STORM  TO  COME  "  50 

VI.     "  AN  ASHEN  GREY  DELIGHT  " 61 

VII.     "  WHO  ARE  YOU,  AND  WHAT  YOUR  MISSION "     .      .     .     .  78 

VIII.      "  I  AM  WEARY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE  " 80 

IX.      "  AH  !   HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE  "...  91 

X.      "  I  AM  BUT  A  SLAVE,  AND  YET  I  BID  THEE  COME  "        .  104 

xi.    "  ADREA'S  DIARY  " 114 

XII.    "  WE  ARE  LIKE  SHOOTING  STARS,  WHOSE  MEETING  IS 

THEIR  RUIN  " 122 

XIII.  "  THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  TO  MADMEN'S  KINGDOMS  "     .  129 

XIV.  "  THE  POISON  OF  HONEY  FLOWERS  " 136 

XV.    "AND  MOST  OF  ALL  WOULD  I  FLY  FROM  THE  CRUEL 

MADNESS  OF  LOVE  "       144 

XVI.    "  '  TWIXT  YOU  AND  ME  A  NOISOME  SHADOW  CAST  "   .    .  154 
XVII.    "IF  LOVE  YOU  CHOOSE,  THEN  LOVE  SHALL  BE  YOUR 

RUIN" 159 

XVIII.    "SOFTLY GLIMMERING  THROUGH  THE  LAURELS  AT  THE 

QUIET  EVENFALL" 166 


x  CONTENTS. 

OHAP.  PAGE 

xix.  "BLOOD   CALLS  ALOUD   FOB   BLOOD  AND   NOT   FOR 

HANDS  ENTWINED". 174 

xx.    "THE  NEW,  STRONG  WINE  OF  LOVE" 180 

xxi.    "  ADREA'S  DIARY  " 185 

XXII.  "OH  !  HEART  OF  STONE,  TET  FLESH  TO  ALL  SAVE  ME"  195 

XXIII.  "  MY  LIPS  ARE  CHARGED  WITH  TRUTH,  AND  JUSTICE 

BIDS  ME  SPEAK" 206 

XXIV.  "  THE  SHATTERED  VASE  OF  LOVE'S  MOST  HOLY  VOWS  "  218 
XXV.  "A  BECKONING  VOICE  FROM  OUT  A  SHADOWY  LAND"  224 

xxvi.  "LATE  THOU  COMEST,  CRUEL  THOU  HAST  BEEN"  .    .  232 

xxvii.  "GRIM  FIGURES  TRACED  BY  SORROW'S  FIERY  HAND"  241 

xxvin.   "  ADREA'S  DIARY  " 249 

xxix.    "ADREA'S  DIARY" 263 

xxx.    "  ADREA'S  DIARY  " 275 

xxxi.    "ADREA'S  DIARY" 280 

xxxii.    "THE  LORD  OF  CRUTA" 291 

xxxni.    "THE  DAWN  OF  A  SHORT,  SWEET  LIFE" 298 

XXXIV.  "A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE  FROM  THE  DISTANT  PAST"   .  308 

XXXV.  "  FROM  OUT  LIFE'S  THUNDERS  TO  A  STRANGE,  SWEET 

WORLD" 322 

xxxvi.  "LOVE  THAN  DEATH  ITSELF  MORE  STRONG"             ,  329 


A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


CHAPTER  I 

"  THE  BLACK-ROBED  PHANTOM  '  DEATH  '  " 

"  FATHER  ADRIAN  ! " 

"I  am  here!" 

"I  saw  the  doctor  talking  with  you  aside!  How 
long  have  I  to  live?  He  told  you  the  truth!  Eepeat 
his  words  to  me!  " 

The  tall,  gaunt  young  priest  drew  nearer  to  the  bed- 
side, and  shook  his  head  with  a  slow,  pitying  gesture. 

"The  time  was  short — short  indeed.  Yet,  why 
should  you  fear?  Your  confession  has  been  made!  I 
myself  have  pronounced  your  absolution;  the  holy 
Church  has  granted  to  you  her  most  holy  sacrament." 

"Fear!  Bah!  I  have  no  fear!  It  is  a  matter  of 
calculation.  Shall  I  see  morning  break?" 

"You  may;    but  you  will  never  see  the  mid-day 

BUH." 

ii 


12  A  MONK  OF  ORUTA 

The  dying  man  raised  himself  with  a  slow,  painful 
movement,  and  pointed  to  the  window. 

"  Throw  up  the  window." 

He  was  obeyed.  A  servant  who  had  been  sitting 
quietly  in  the  shadows  of  the  vast  apartment,  with  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands,  rose  and  did  his  master's 
bidding. 

"What  hour  is  it?" 

"  Three  o'clock." 

"Gomez,  strain  your  eyes  seaward.  Is  there  no 
light  on  the  horizon  ?  " 

"  None!  The  storm  has  wrapped  the  earth  in  dark- 
ness. Listen !  " 

A  torrent  of  rain  was  swept  against  the  streaming 
window  pane,  and  a  gust  of  wind  shook  the  frame  in 
its  sockets.  The  watcher  turned  away  from  the  win- 
dow with  a  mute  gesture  of  despair.  No  eye  could 
pierce  that  black  chaos.  He  sank  again  into  his  seat, 
and  looked  around  shuddering.  The  high,  vaulted 
chamber  was  lit  by  a  pair  of  candles  only,  leaving  the 
greater  part  of  it  in  gloom.  Grim,  fantastic  shadows 
lurked  in  the  corners,  and  lay  across  the  bare  floor. 
Even  the  tall  figure  of  the  priest,  on  his  knees  before 
a  rude  wooden  crucifix,  seemed  weird  and  ghostly. 
The  heavy,  mildewed  bed-hangings  shook  and  trembled 
in  the  draughts  which  filled  the  room,  and  the  candles 


"  THE  BLA  CK-R  OB  ED  PHANTOM  '  DEA  TH' "       13 

flickered  and  burnt  low  in  their  sockets.  Gomez 
watched  them  with  a  sort  of  anxious  fascination.  His 
master's  life  was  burning  out,  minute  for  minute,  with 
those  candles.  Twenty-five  years  of  constant  compan- 
ionship would  be  ended  in  a  few  brief  hours.  Gomez 
was  not  disposed  to  trouble  much  at  this ;  but  he  be- 
thought himself  of  a  snug  little  abode  in  Piccadilly} 
where  the  discomforts  now  surrounding  them  were 
quite  unknown.  Surely,  to  die  there  would  be  a  lux- 
ury compared  with  this.  He  began  to  feel  personally 
aggrieved  that  his  master  should  have  chosen  such  an 
out-of-the-way  hole  to  end  his  days  in.  Then  came  a 
rush  of  thought,  and  he  was  grave.  He  knew  why! 
Yes!  he  knew  why! 

The  dying  man  lay  quite  still,  almost  as  though  his 
time  were  already  come.  Once  he  raised  himself,  and 
the  feeble  light  flashed  across  a  grey,  haggard  face 
and  a  pair  of  burning  eyes.  But  his  effort  was  only 
momentary.  He  sank  back  again,  and  lay  there  with 
his  eyes  half  closed,  and  breathing  softly.  He  was 
nursing  his  strength. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five!  The  harsh  clanging  of 
a  brazen  clock  somewhere  in  the  building  had  pene- 
trated to  the  chamber,  followed  by  a  deep,  resonant 
bell.  The  man  on  the  bed  lifted  his  head. 

"How  goes  the  storm?"  he  asked  softly. 

Gomez  stood  up  and  faced  the  window. 


14  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  The  storm  dies  with  the  night,  sir,"   he  answered, 
"  The  wind  has  fallen." 

"  When  does  day  break?  " 

Gomez  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  In  one  hour,  sir." 

"  Stay  by  the  window,  Gomez,  and  let  your  eyes 
watch  for  the  dawn." 

The  priest  frowned.  "  Surely  the  time  has  come 
when  you  should  quit  your  hold  on  earthly  things,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  What  matters  the  dawn!  soon  you  will 
lose  yourself  in  an  everlasting  sleep,  and  the  dawn  for 
you  will  be  eternity.  Take  this  crucifix,  and  pray  with 
me." 

The  dying  man  pushed  it  away  with  a  gesture 
almost  contemptuous. 

"  Is  there  no  light  on  the  sea  yet,  Gomez?  "  he  asked 
anxiously. 

Gomez  leant  forward  till  his  face  touched  the  win- 
dow pane.  He  strained  his  eyes  till  they  ached ;  but 
the  darkness  was  impenetrable.  Yet  stay, — what  was 
that  ?  A  feeble  yellow  light  was  glimmering  far  away 
in  the  heart  of  that  great  gulf  of  darkness.  He  held 
his  breath,  and  watched  it  steadily.  Then  he  turned 
round. 

"  There  is  a  light  in  the  far  distance,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  I  cannot  tell  what  it  may  be,  but  there  is  a  light." 


"  THE  BLACK-ROBED  PHANTOM  'DEATH"1        15 

A  wave  of  excitement  passed  over  the  strong,  wasted 
features  of  the  man  upon  the  bed.  He  half  raised  him- 
self, and  his  voice  was  almost  firm. 

"  Push  my  bed  to  the  window,"   he  ordered. 

The  two  men,  priest  and  servant,  bent  all  their 
strength  to  the  task,  and  inch  by  inch  they  moved  the 
great,  creaking  structure.  When  at  last  they  had  suc- 
ceeded, and  paused  to  take  breath,  the  light  in  the  dis- 
tance had  become  stronger  and  more  apparent.  To- 
gether the  three  men  watched  it  grow;  master  and 
servant,  with  breathless  eagerness,  the  priest  with  a 
show  of  displeasure  in  his  severe  face.  Suddenly 
Gomez  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  The  dawn  ! "  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  north 
of  the  light.  "  Morning  is  breaking." 

Sure  enough,  a  grey,  pallid  light  was  stealing  down 
upon  the  water.  The  darkness  was  becoming  a  chaos 
of  grey  and  black;  of  towering  seas  and  low-lying 
clouds,  with  cold  white  streaks  of  light  falling  through 
them,  and  piercing  the  curtains  of  night.  There  was 
no  vestige  of  colouring — nothing  but  cold  grey  and 
slate  white.  Yet  the  dawn  moved  on,  and  through 
it  the  yellow  light  in  the  distance  gleamed  larger  and 
larger. 

"Hold  me  up,"  ordered  the  man  on  the  bed 
"  Prop  me  up  with  pillows  1  " 


16  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

They  did  as  he  bade  them,  and  for  the  first  time  his 
face  was  fully  revealed  in  the  struggling  twilight.  A 
flowing  grey  beard,  still  plentifully  streaked  with 
black,  rested  upon  his  chest;  and  the  eyes,  steadily 
fixed  upon  the  window  pane,  were  dark  and  undiinmed. 
A  long  illness  had  wasted  his  fine  features,  but  had  de- 
tracted nothing  from  their  strength  and  regularity  of 
outline.  His  lips  were  closely  set,  and  his  expression, 
though  painfully  eager,  was  not  otherwise  displeasing. 
There  was  none  of  the  fear  of  death  there;  nor  was 
there  anything  of  the  passionless  resignation  of  the  man 
who  has  bidden  farewell  to  life,  and  made  his  peace 
with  God  and  man ;  nor,  in  those  moments  of  watching, 
had  his  face  any  of  the  physical  signs  of  approaching 
death. 

"Ah  !" 

They  started  at  the  sharp,  almost  triumphant  excla- 
mation which  had  escaped  from  his  white  lips,  and 
followed  his  long,  quivering  finger.  Above  that  glim- 
mering light  was  a  faint,  dim  line  of  smoke,  fading  on 
the  horizon. 

"It  is  a  steamer,  indeed,"  the  priest  said,  with 
some  interest.  "  She  is  making  for  the  island." 

"  When  is  the  supply  boat  due?  "  Gomez  asked. 

"  Not  for  a  fortnight,"  the  priest  answered;  "it  ia 
not  she,  it  is  a  stranger." 

There  was  no  other  word  spoken.      Soon  the  dawn, 


"  THE  EL  A  CK-R  OB  ED  PHANTOM  '  DEA  TS' "       17 

moving  across  the  great  waste  of  waters,  pierced  th& 
dark  background  behind  the  steamer's  light.  The 
long  trail  of  white,  curdling  foam  in  her  track  gleamed 
like  a  silver  cleft  in  a  dark  gulf.  The  dim  shape  of 
her  sails  stole  slowly  into  sight,  and  they  could  see  that 
she  was  carrying  a  great  weight  of  canvas.  Then  into 
the  grey  air,  a  rocket  shot  up  like  a  brilliant  me- 
teor, and  the  sound  of  a  gun  came  booming  over  the 
waters. 

"  Can  she  make  the  bay  ?  "  Gomez  asked  suddenly. 
"  Look  at  the  surf." 

They  all  removed  their  eyes  from  the  steamer,  and 
fixed  them  nearer  home.  The  darkness  had  rolled 
away,  and  the  outlook,  though  a  little  uncertain  in  the 
misty  morning  light,  was  still  visible.  Right  before 
the  window,  a  little  to  the  left,  a  great  rocky  hill,  many 
hundreds  of  feet  high,  ran  sheer  down  into  the  sea,  and 
facing  it  on  the  right,  was  a  lower  range  of  rocks 
running  out  from  the  mainland.  Inside  the  natural 
harbour  thus  formed,  the  sea  was  quiet  enough;  but  at 
the  entrance,  a  line  of  white  breakers  and  huge  ocean 
waves  were  leaping  up  against  the  base  of  the  promon- 
tory, and  dashing  over  the  lower  range  of  rocks.  Be- 
yond, the  sea  was  wild  and  rough,  and  the  steamer 
was  often  almost  lost  to  sight  in  the  hollow  of  the 
waves. 

"Ah!" 


<8  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

The  faces  *x  all  three  men  underwent  a  sudden 
change.  Three  rockets,  one  after  another,  shot  up  into 
the  sky  from  the  top  of  the  rocky  hill,  leaving  a  faint, 
violet  glow  overhead.  The  dying  man  set  his  teeth 
hard,  and  his  eyes  glistened. 

"  Three  rockets,"  he  muttered.  "  What  is  the 
meaning  of  that  signal,  Father  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  priest  looked  downward,  pityingly.  "It  is  a 
warning  that  the  entrance  to  the  bay  is  unsafe,"  he 
answered.  "Take  comfort;  it  is  the  hand  of  God 
keeping  from  you  those  who  would  distract  your  dy- 
ing thoughts  from  Heaven.  Take  comfort,  and  pray 
with  me." 

He  seemed  strangely  deaf  to  the  priest's  words,  and 
made  no  movement  or  sign  in  response.  Only  he  kept 
his  eyes  the  more  steadfastly  fixed  upon  the  steamer, 
now  plainly  visible.  His  face  showed  no  disappoint- 
ment. It  seemed  almost  as  though  he  might  have 
seen  across  the  grey  sea,  and  heard  the  stern  orders 
thundered  out  from  a  slim,  motionless  figure  on  the 
captain's  bridge.  "Bight  ahead,  helmsman!  Never 
mind  the  signal.  There's  fifty  pounds  for  every  man 
of  you  if  we  make  the  bay.  It's  not  so  bad  as  it 
looks!  Back  me  up  like  brave  lads,  and  I'll  remem- 
ber it  all  your  lives! " 

Almost,  too,  he  might  have  heard  the  answering 


"  THE  BLA  GK-R  OBED  PHANTOM  '  DEA  TH ' "       19 

cheer,  for  a  faint  smile  parted  his  white  lips  as  he  saw 
the  steamer  ploughing  her  way  heavily  straight  ahead, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  warning  signal. 

On  she  came.  The  priest  and  the  servant  started  as 
they  saw  her  intention,  and  a  sharp  ejaculation  of  sur- 
prise escaped  from  the  former.  Side  by  side,  they 
watched  the  labouring  vessel  with  strained  eyes.  Her 
hull  and  shape  were  now  visible  in  the  dim  morning 
twilight,  as  she  rose  and  fell  upon  the  waves.  It  was 
evident  that  she  was  a  large,  handsome  pleasure  yacht, 
daintily  but  strongly  built. 

Close  up  against  the  high,  bare  window  the  three 
watchers,  unconsciously  enough,  formed  a  striking- 
looking  group.  The  priest,  tall,  pale,  and  severe,  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  the  bed-curtains,  an  impressive  and 
solemn  figure  in  his  dark,  flowing  robes,  but  with  the 
impassibility  of  his  features  curiously  disturbed.  He, 
who  had  been  preaching  calm,  was  himself  agitated. 
He  had  drawn  a  little  on  one  side,  so  that  the  cold 
grey  light  should  not  fall  upon  his  face  and  betray  its 
twitching  lips  and  quivering  pallor;  but  if  either  of 
the  men  who  shared  his  watch  had  thought  to  glance 
at  him,  the  sickly  candlelight  would  have  shown  at 
once  what  he  was  so  anxious  to  conceal.  It  was  little 
more  than  chance  which  had  brought  this  man  to  die 
in  his  island  monastery,  and  under  his  care;  little 


20  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

more  than  chance  which  had  revealed  to  him  this 
wonderful  secret.  But  the  agony  of  those  last  few 
hours,  and  the  gloomy  words  of  the  priest  who  leant 
over  his  bedside,  had  found  their  way  in  between  the 
joints  of  the  dying  man's  armour  of  secrecy.  Word 
by  word,  the  story  had  been  wrested  from  him.  In 
the  cold  and  comfortless  hour  of  death,  the  strong, 
worldly  man  felt  his  physical  weakness  loosen  the  iron 
bands  of  his  will,  and  he  became  for  a  time  almost 
like  a  child  in  the  hands  of  the  keen,  swiftly-question- 
ing priest.  He  had  not  found  much  comfort  in  the 
mumbled  prayers  and  absolution,  which  were  all  he 
got  in  exchange  for  his  life's  secret, — and  such  a 
secret!  He  had  not,  indeed,  noticed  the  fixed,  far- 
away gaze  in  the  priest's  dark  eyes  as  he  knelt  by  the 
bedside;  but  his  prayers,  his  faint  words  of  comfort, 
had  fallen  like  drops  of  ice  upon  his  quickened  desire 
to  be  brought  a  little  nearer  to  that  mysterious,  shad- 
owy essence  of  goodness  which  was  all  his  mind  could 
conceive  of  a  God.  It  had  seemed  like  a  dead  form 
of  words,  lifeless,  hopeless,  monotonous;  and  all  that 
faint  striving  to  attain  to  some  knowledge  of  the  truth 
— if  indeed  truth  there  was — had  been  crushed  into 
ashes  by  it.  As  he  had  lived,  so  must  he  die,  he  told 
himself  with  some  return  of  that  philosophic  quietude 
which  had  led  him,  stout-hearted  and  brave,  through 


"  THE  BLAOK-ROBED  PHANTOM  'DEATH'"       21 

many  dangers.  And,  at  that  moment  when  he  had 
been  striving  to  detach  his  thoughts  from  their  vain 
task  of  conjuring  up  useless  regrets,  there  had  come 
what  even  now  seemed  to  be  the  granting  of  his  last 
passionate  prayer.  The  man  whom  he  had  longed  to 
see  once  more  before  his  eyes  were  closed  forever 
upon  the  world,  with  such  a  longing  that  his  heart 
had  grown  sick  and  weary  with  the  burden  of  it,  had 
been  brought  as  though  by  a  miracle  almost  to  his 
side.  He  knew  as  though  by  some  strange  instinct 
the  measure  of  his  strength.  He  had  no  fear  of  dying 
before  his  heart's  dearest  wish  could  be  gratified.  If 
only  that  fiercely  labouring  vessel  succeeded  in  her 
brave  struggle,  he  knew  that  there  would  be  strength 
left  to  him  to  bear  the  shock  of  meeting,  to  bear  even 
the  shock  of  the  tidings  which  could  either  sweeten 
his  last  few  moments,  or  deepen  the  gloom  of  his  pas- 
sage into  the  unknown  world.  And  so  he  lay  there, 
with  fixed,  glazed  eyes  and  shortened  breath,  watching 
and  waiting. 

The  supreme  moment  came ;  the  steamer  had  reached 
the  dangerous  point,  and  the  waves  were  breaking  over 
her  with  such  fury  that  more  than  once  she  vanished 
altogether  from  sight,  only  to  reappear  in  a  moment 
or  two,  quivering  and  trembling  from  stern  to  hull 
like  a  living  creature.  After  all,  the  struggle  was  a 


22  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

brief  one,  though  it  seemed  long  to  the  watchers  at 
the  window.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  it  was  over; 
she  had  passed  the  line  of  breakers,  and  was  in  the 
comparatively  smooth  water  of  the  bay,  heading  fast 
for  the  shore  under  leeway  of  the  great  wall  of  tower- 
ing rocks,  at  the  foot  of  which  she  seemed  dwarfed 
almost  into  the  semblance  of  a  boy's  toy  vessel. 
Within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  shore,  she 
anchored,  and  a  boat  was  let  down  from  her  side. 

A  new  lease  of  life  seemed  to  have  come  to  the  man 
on  the  bed.  The  morning  sun  had  half  emerged  from 
a  bank  of  angry  purple-coloured  clouds,  and  its  faint 
slanting  beams  lay  across  the  white  coverlet  of  the 
bed,  and  upon  his  face.  His  eyes  were  bright  and 
eager,  and  the  death-like  pallor  seemed  to  have  passed 
from  his  features.  His  voice,  too,  was  firm  and  dis- 
tinct. 

"  Place  my  despatch -box  upon  the  table  here, 
Gomez,"  he  ordered. 

Gomez  left  his  seat  by  the  window,  and,  open- 
ing a  portmanteau,  brought  a  small  black  box  to  the 
bedside.  His  master  passed  his  hand  over  it,  and 
drew  it  underneath  the  coverlet. 

"  I  am  prepared,"  he  murmured,  half  to  himself. 
"  Father,  according  to  the  physician's  reckoning,  how 
long  have  I  to  live?  " 


"  THE  BLA GK-ROBED  PHANTOM  '  DEA  TH' "        23 

"  Barely  an  hour,"  answered  the  priest,  without  re- 
moving his  eyes  from  the  boat,  whose  progress  he 
seemed  to  be  scanning  steadfastly.  "  Is  your  eternal 
future  of  so  little  moment  to  you,"  he  went  on  in  a 
tone  of  harsh  severity,  "that  you  can  give  your  last 
thoughts,  your  last  few  moments,  to  affairs  of  this 
world?  'Tis  an  unholy  death!  Take  this  cross  in 
your  hands,  and  listen  not  to  those  whose  coming  will 
surely  estrange  you  from  heaven.  Let  the  world  take 
its  own  course,  but  lift  your  eyes  and  heart  in  prayer ! 
Everlasting  salvation,  or  everlasting  doom,  awaits  you 
before  yonder  sun  be  set!" 

"I  have  no  fear,  Father,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 
"  What  is,  is ;  a  few  frantic  prayers  now  could  alter 
nothing,  and,  besides,  my  work  on  earth  is  not  yet  over. 
Speak  to  me  no  more  of  the  end!  Nothing  that  you 
or  I  could  do  now  would  bring  me  one  step  nearer 
heaven.  Gomez,  your  eyes  are  good!  Whom  do  you 
see  in  the  boat?" 

Gomez  answered  without  turning  round  from  the 
window,  "  Mr.  Paul  is  there,  sir,  steering!  " 

"Thank  God!" 

"There  are  others  with  him,  sir!" 

"Others!    Who?" 

"  Strangers  to  me,  sir.  There  is  a  man,  a  gentle- 
man by  his  dress  and  appearance,  and  a  child — a  girl, 
X  tbiuk.  Two  sailors  from  the  yacht  are  rowing.11 


84  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

The  dying  man  knitted  his  brows,  and  his  fingers 
convulsively  clutched  at  the  bed-clothes.  He  had  lost 
something  of  that  calm  and  effortless  serenity  which 
seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  him  since  the  safety  of  the 
steamer  had  been  assured. 

"The  boat  is  quite  close,  Gomez!  Can  you  not  de- 
scribe the  stranger  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  see  that  he  is  thin,  rather  tall,  and,  I 
think,  elderly,  sir.  He  is  very  much  wrapped  up,  as 
though  he  were  an  invalid." 

"Lift  me  up  so  that  I  can  see  them.  Father  Adrian 
will  help  you." 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "  The  effort  would 
probably  cost  you  your  life,"  he  said,  "and  it  would 
be  useless.  Before  you  could  see  them  the  boat  would 
be  round  the  corner." 

"So  near!  God  grant  me  strength!  Gomez,  give 
me  a  tablespoonful  of  the  brandy!  " 

Gomez  moved  silently  to  his  side,  and  poured  out 
the  brandy.  Afterwards  his  master  closed  his  eyes, 
and  there  was  an  intense  silence  in  the  chamber — the 
deep,  breathless  silence  of  expectancy. 

The  monastery  itself,  a  small  and  deserted  one,  ten- 
anted only  by  a  few  half -starved  monks  of  one  of  the 
lower  orders  of  the  Church,  was  wrapped  in  a  profound 
gloom.  There  was  no  sound  from  the  half -ruined 


"  THE  BLA  CK-R  OB  ED  PHANTOM  '  DEA  TH'"       35 

chapel  or  the  long,  empty  corridors.  The  storm  had 
ceased,  and  the  casements  no  longer  rattled  in  the 
wind.  To  the  man  who  lay  there,  nursing  his  fast- 
ebbing  strength,  it  seemed  indeed  like  the  silence  be- 
fore the  one  last  tragedy  of  death,  looming  so  black 
and  so  grim  before  him. 

It  was  broken  at  last.  Away  at  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor the  faint  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  and  sub- 
dued voices  reached  the  ears  of  the  three  watchers. 
They  came  nearer  and  nearer,  halting  at  last  just  out- 
side the  door.  There  was  a  knock,  a  quick,  impetuous 
answer,  and  the  visitors  entered,  ushered  in  by  the 
priest,  who  had  met  them  on  the  threshold. 

Of  the  two  men,  one  advanced  hastily  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  pitying  face  to  the  bedside;  the 
other  moved  only  a  step  or  two  further  into  the  room, 
and  stood  looking  intently,  yet  without  any  salutation 
or  form  of  recognition,  at  the  dying  man.  The  former, 
when  he  reached  the  bed,  sank  on  his  knees  and  took 
the  white  hand  which  lay  upon  the  coverlet  between 
his. 

"Father!  My  father!  I  would  have  given  the  world 
to  have  found  you  better.  Tell  me  that  it  is  not  true 
what  they  say.  You  will  pull  round  now  that  I  have 
come!" 

There  was  no  answer.     The  dying  man  did  not  even 


26  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

look  into  the  handsome  young  face  so  close  to  his. 
His  eyes,  bright  and  unnaturally  large,  were  rivetted 
upon  the  figure  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  His  breath 
came  quickly,  and  he  was  shivering;  an  inarticulate 
sort  of  moan  came  from  his  lips. 

"Father!  you  are  agitated,  and  no  wonder,  to  see 
him  here.  You  had  my  letter  preparing  you;  nothing 
that  I  could  do  would  stop  his  coming." 

It  was  Gomez  who  answered,  advancing  out  of  the 
gloom:  "  There  has  been  no  letter." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Then  the  younger 
man  rose  up,  pale  as  death.  "God!  what  a  fool  I  was 
to  trust  to  mails  in  this  out-of-the-way  hole!  Father! 
I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  Blind  idiot  that  I  was, 
to  bring  him  in  like  this." 

It  seemed  as  if  no  one  save  he  possessed  the  power 
of  speech.  There  was  a  dead  silence.  He  looked 
from  one  to  another  of  the  figures  in  that  silent  drama 
in  fast-growing  despair.  The  face  of  the  man  whom 
lie  had  brought  there  revealed  little,  although  in  a 
certain  way  its  expression  was  remarkable.  The  lips 
wore  parted  in  a  slow,  quiet  smile,  not  in  itself  sardonic 
or  cruel,  although  under  the  circumstances  it  seemed 
so,  for  it  was  difficult  to  associate  any  idea  of  mirth 
with  the  scene  which  was  passing  in  that  grim,  gloomy 
chamber.  Something  of  the  awe  inseparable  from 


"  THE  BLACK-ROBED  PHANTOM  '  DEA TH' "       27 

this  close  approach  of  death  was  visible  in  the 
faces  of  all  the  other  watchers.  Not  so  in  his!  It 
was  the  contrast  which  seemed  so  strange.  He  stood 
there,  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of 
his  long  travelling  coat,  returning  the  fixed,  glazed 
stare  of  the  dying  man  with  a  sort  of  indifferent  good 
humour.  Perhaps  a  very  close  observer  might  have 
detected  a  shade  of  mockery  in  those  soft  black  eyes 
and  faintly  twitching  lips,  but  the  light  in  the  room 
was  too  obscure  for  any  one  there  to  penetrate  beneath 
the  apparent  indifference.  It  was  he  who  broke  that 
deep,  tragic  silence,  and  his  voice,  light  and  even  gay, 
struck  a  strange  note  in  that  solemn  chamber  of 
death. 

"So  you  are  dying,  Martin,  mon  ami?  How  odd! 
If  any  one  had  told  me  one  short  month  ago  that  I 
should  have  been  here  to  watch  your  last  moments, 
and  start  you  on  your  journey  to  hell,  bah !  how  mad  I 
should  have  thought  them.  '  Tis  a  pleasure  I  never 
anticipated." 

His  words  seemed  to  dissolve  the  lethargy  which  his 
presence  had  cast  over  the  dying  man.  He  turned 
away  towards  the  younger  figure  by  his  side. 

"How  came  he  here?"  he  asked  feebly. 

"Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  was  the  low  reply. 
*'I  sought  him  first  at  Monaco,  but  he  had  not  been 


28  A  MONK  OP  CRUTA 

heard  of  there  for  two  years.  Then  I  found  traces  of 
him  at  Algiers;  and  followed  up  the  clue  to  Cairo, 
Athens,  Syracuse,  and  Belgrade.  It  was  at  Constanti- 
nople I  found  him  at  last — an  officer — actually  an 
officer  in  the  Turkish  army;  'Monsieur  le  Captaine,' 
my  interpreter  called  him,"  the  young  man  added, 
with  a  fine  scorn  in  his  raised  voice.  "Imagine  it! 
Well,  I  gave  him  your  letter,  delivered  the  messages, 
and  awaited  his  pleasure.  He  kept  me  waiting  for  two 
days  before  he  vouchsafed  one  word  of  answer.  On 
the  third  day  he  announced  his  intention  of  accom- 
panying me  here.  Nothing  that  I  could  say  made  any 
difference.  'His  answer  should  be  given  to  you  in 
person,  or  not  at  all.'  I  wrote  to  you  three  days  before 
we  started;  that  letter  you  never  had.  Forgive  me, 
father,  for  the  shock!  As  for  you,"  he  continued, 
turning  abruptly  towards  the  motionless  figure  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  "I  have  kept  my  word,  and  brought 
you  here  in  safety,  though  no  one  in  the  world  will 
ever  know  how  near  I  came  to  breaking  it,  and  throw- 
ing you  into  the  Dardanelles.  Ah!  I  was  sorely 
tempted,  I  can  tell  you.  Speak  your  answer,  and  go! 
This  is  no  place  for  you  to  linger  in." 

"Upon  my  word,  you  are  courteous,  very  I  But,  my 
dear  friend  Martin,  as  this  is  to  be  our  farewell,  I 
must  really  see  you  a  little  more  distinctly." 


"  TEE  BLACK-ROBED  PHANTOM  '  DEA TH' '        29 

For  the  first  time,  the  man  in  the  long  overcoat 
changed  his  position,  and  came  a  little  nearer  to  the 
bed.  The  movement  showed  him  the  priest,  kneeling 
with  closed  eyes  and  uplifted  hands  before  an  iron 
crucifix. 

"Ah!  we  are  not  quite  alone  then,  Martin,  cher  ami! 
the  gentleman  in  the  long  robe  appears  to  be  listening." 

"He  is  as  dead,"  answered  the  man  on  the  bed  slowly. 
"He  is  a  monk;  you  can  speak." 

He  raised  himself  slightly  on  the  bed.  One  hand 
remained  grasping  his  despatch-box  under  the  bed- 
clothes; the  other  was  held  by  the  young  man  who 
knelt  by  his  side.  His  face  was  curiously  changed ;  all 
the  effect  of  his  unlooked-for  visitor's  arrival  seemed 
to  have  passed  away.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  eager. 
His  white  lips  were  closely  set  and  firm. 

"You  can  speak,"  he  repeated. 

His  visitor  was  leaning  over  the  foot  of  the  bed  now, 
and  the  smile  had  quite  gone,  leaving  his  face  cold 
and  white.  He  spoke  a  little  quicker  than  before. 

"Here  is  your  answer,  Martin  de  Vaux!  You  offer 
me  a  fortune,  on  condition  that  I  give  up  to  you  on 
your  deathbed  the  power  by  which  I  hold  those  whom 
you  love,  my  slaves.  Money  is  dear  to  me,  as  it  is  to 
most  men,  but  I  would  die  sooner  than  touch  yours. 
Curse  you,  and  your  money,  and  your  family !  Not  for 


30  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

all  the  gold  that  was  ever  coined  would  I  yield  up  my 
power!  My  day  will  come,  and  may  the  evil  spirit 
bring  you  tidings  of  it  down  into  hell!  Curse  you, 
Martin  de  Vaux!  Now  you  know  my  mind." 

The  dying  man  was  strangely  calm.  From  under 
the  bed-clothes  came  the  faint  sound  of  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  the  despatch-box. 

"Yes,  I  know  your  mind,'''  he  repeated  quietly. 
"You  mean  me  to  die  with  the  torturing  thought 
that  I  have  left  a  poisonous  reptile  to  suck  the  life 
and  blood  from  those  I  love,  and  the  honour  from  a 
grand  old  name.  But  I  will  not !  We  will  take  our 
next  journey  together,  Victor." 

A  sudden  change  had  crept  into  his  tone  before  the 
last  sentence ;  and  before  it  had  died  away,  the  priest 
and  the  man  by  the  bedside  had  leaped  to  their  feet  in 
horror.  He  whom  they  had  thought  too  weak  to  stir 
was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed,  his  eyes  blazing  and 
his  hand  extended.  There  was  a  line  of  fire,  a  loud 
report,  and  then  a  single  cry  of  agony.  The  man  who 
had  leaned  over  the  foot  of  the  bed  lay  on  the  gro 
just  as  he  had  fallen,  shot  dead  through  the  heart,  and 
a  child,  dark-skinned  and  thin,  who  had  rushed  in  at 
the  sound  of  the  report,  was  sobbing  passionately 
with  her  arms  wound  around  him.  Across  the  bed, 
still  grasping  the  pistol,  but  with  his  hands  hanging 


"  THE  BLA CE-ROBEV  PHANTOM  « DBA  TH' '        31 

helplessly  down,  lay  the  man  who  had  fired  the  shot 
The  effort  had  killed  him. 

The  priest  was  the  first  in  the  room  to  move.  He 
slowly  bent  over  both  bodies,  and  then  turned  round 
to  the  other  man. 

"Dead?  "  he  asked,  with  a  dry,  choking  gasp. 

"Both  dead." 

The  priest  and  his  companion,  shocked  and  unnerved, 
looked  at  one  another  in  silence.  The  child's  sobs 
grew  louder,  and  the  morning  sunlight  stole  across  the 
bare  floor,  and  fell  upon  the  white,  still  faces. 

The  tragedy  was  over,  and  the  seeds  of  another 
sown. 


A  MONK  OF  CHUT  A 


CHAPTER    II 

"THE  NEW  ART" 

A  TALL,  fair  young  man  stood  in  the  small  alcove  of 
Lady  Swindon's  drawing-room,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  door.  He  was  accurately  dressed  in  the  afternoon 
garb  of  a  London  man  about  town,  and  carried  in  his 
hand,  or  rather  in  his  hands,  for  they  were  crossed 
behind  him,  that  hall-mark  of  Western  civilization — 
a  well-brushed,  immaculate  silk  hat.  Neither  in  his 
clothes  nor  personal  appearance  was  there  any  striking 
difference  between  him  and  the  crowd  of  other  young 
men  who  thronged  the  rooms,  except  perhaps  that  he 
was  a  trifle  better  made,  and  pleasanter  to  look  at  than 
most  of  them,  and  that  the  air  of  boredom,  so  appar- 
ent on  most  of  their  faces  and  in  their  manners,  was 
in  his  case  perfectly  natural.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
hated  afternoon  receptions,  and  was  only  waiting  for  a 
favourable  opportunity  to  make  his  exit  unnoticed. 

"Paul,  my  boy,  you  don't  look  happy,"  exclaimed  a 
voice  in  his  ear. 

Paul  de  Vaux  turned  upon  the  new-comer  sharply. 


"THE  NEW  ART"  88 

"  Not  likely  to,  Arthur.  You  know  I  hate  all  this  sort 
of  thing,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  it's  just  a  repetition 
of  the  usual  performance — stale  speeches,  lionizing, 
gossip,  and  weak  tea.  I  consider  you've  brought  me 
here  under  false  pretences.  Where's  the  startling  nov- 
elty you  promised  me?  " 

"All  in  good  time,"  was  the  cool  reply.  "You'll 
thank  your  stars  you're  here  in  a  minute  or  two." 

Paul  de  Vaux  looked  at  his  brother  incredulously. 
"  Some  sell  of  yours,  I  suppose,"  he  remarked.  "  At 
any  rate,  no  one  here  whom  I  have  spoken  to  seems  to 
be  expecting  anything  unusual." 

Arthur — no  one  ever  called  him  anything  else — 
laughed,  and  beat  an  impatient  tattoo  upon  the  floor 
with  his  foot.  He  was  several  inches  shorter  than  his 
brother,  and  altogether  unlike  him.  Yet  he,  too,  was 
good-looking,  in  a  certain  way. 

"  That's  just  the  beauty  of  it,"  he  said.  "  Lady 
Swindon  has  prepared  a  little  surprise  for  her  guests. 
She's  just  that  sort  of  woman,  you  know.  Denison 
told  me  about  it  at  the  club,  a  few  minutes  before  you 
came  in  for  lunch.  I  shouldn't  have  bothered  you  to 
come  if  I  hadn't  known  there  was  something  good  on." 

"I  dislike  surprises,"  his  brother  answered  wearily. 
"  Half  the  pleasure  of  a  thing  lies  in  anticipation,  and 
surprises  rob  one  of  thai  Let  us  go,  Arthur;  there 


84  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

are  plenty  here  to  enjoy  this  novelty,  whatever  it  is. 
Come  and  have  a  weed  at  my  rooms,  and  we'll  talk 
over  something  for  to-night." 

Arthur  shook  his  head,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  Paul's 
coat-sleeve.  "  You  don't  know  what's  coming  off,  old 
fellow;  I  wouldn's  miss  it  for  anything.  Great  Scott! 
there's  the  bishop.  Wonder  how  he'll  like  it?  and 
there^s  Lady  May  over  there,  Paul.  You're  booked, 
old  man,  if  she  looks  this  way." 

Paul  leant  forward  with  a  faint  show  of  interest,  and 
looked  in  the  direction  indicated.  "I  thought  that  the 
Westovers  went  North  yesterday,"  he  remarked. 
"  Lady  May  said  that  they  expected  it" 

"Likely  enough.  'Gad!  the  performance  is  going 
to  commence,"  Arthur  exclaimed,  quickly.  "Paul, 
you  are  going  to  have  a  new  sensation.  You  are  going 
to  see  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world." 

There  was  a  little  hush,  and  every  one  had  turned 
towards  the  upper  end  of  the  room.  Some  heavy  cur- 
tains had  been  rolled  aside,  disclosing  a  space,  only  a 
few  yards  square,  which  had  been  covered  by  a  tightly 
stretched  drugget.  There  was  a  little  curious  antici- 
pation amongst  the  uninitiated.  Then  the  comparative 
silence  was  broken  by  the  strains  of  a  waltz  from  a 
violin,  somewhere  in  the  background.  No  one  had 
ever  heard  it  before.  There  was  a  wilder,  dreamier 


"THE  NEW  ART"  35 

air  with  it,  than  anything  Waldteufel  had  ever  written. 
And,  while  every  one  was  wondering  whose  music  it 
could  be,  a  woman  glided  out  from  behind  a  screen,  and 
stood  for  a  second  swaying  herself  slightly  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  drugget.  Even  that  slight  rhythmical  motion 
of  her  body  seemed  to  bring  her  into  perfect  sympathy 
with  the  curious  melody  which  was  filling  the  hushed 
room.  And  while  the  people  watched  her,  already,  in 
varying  degrees,  under  the  spell  of  that  curious  fascin- 
ation which  her  personality  and  the  exercise  of  her  art 
seldom  failed  to  excite,  she  commenced  to  dance. 

Long  afterwards  Paul  de  Vaux  tried  to  describe  in 
words,  that  dance,  and  found  that  he  could  not,  for 
there  was  indeed  a  charm  beyond  expression  or  por- 
trayal in  the  slow,  almost  languid  movements,  full  of 
infinite  and  inexpressible  witchery.  Every  limb  of 
her  body  and  every  feature  of  her  face  followed,  with 
a  sort  of  effortless  grace,  the  movements  of  her  feet. 
Yet  the  general  effect  of  the  whole  was  suggestive  of  a 
sweet  and  dainty  repose,  voluptuous  yet  refined,  glow- 
ing with  life,  yet  dreamily  restful.  In  a  certain  sense 
her  physical  movements,  even  her  body  itself,  seemed 
merged  and  lost  in  the  artistic  ideal  created  and  born 
of  her  performance.  And  so  it  was  that  he  carried 
away  that  day  no  vivid  thought-portrait  of  her  fea- 
tures, only  a  confused  dream  of  a  beautiful  dusky  face, 


36  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

rising  above  a  cloud  of  amber  draperies,  the  lips 
slightly  parted  in  a  wonderful  smile,  and  a  pair  of 
heavily-lidded  eyes,  which,  more  than  once,  had  rested 
upon  him,  soft,  dark,  and  lustrous.  After  all,  it  was 
but  a  tangled  web  of  memories,  yet,  such  as  it  was,  it 
became  woven  into  the  pattern  of  his  life,  wonderfully 
soft  and  brilliant  beside  some  of  those  dark,  gloomy 
threads  which  fate  had  spun  for  him. 

The  performance  ended,  as  such  performance  should 
end,  suddenly,  and  without  repetition.  Her  disappear- 
ance was  so  swift  and  yet  so  graceful,  that  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  people  scarcely  realized  that  she  was  gone. 
It  was  wonderful  what  a  difference  her  absence  made 
to  the  room.  The  little  stretch  of  drugget  looked 
mean  and  bare.  To  Paul  de  Vaux  it  seemed  as  though 
some  warm,  beautiful  light,  omniscient  and  richly  col- 
oured, had  suddenly  burnt  out,  and  left  a  damp  chilli- 
ness in  the  air.  The  silence  was  gloomy  enough  after 
that  wonderful  music,  but  the  babble  of  tongues  which 
presently  arose  was  a  hundred  times  worse.  He  found 
himself  chafing  and  angry  at  the  cornmonplacisms 
which  everywhere  greeted  his  ear.  Lady  Swindon's 
afternoon  entertainment  had  been  a  great  success,  and 
every  one  was  telling  her  so,  more  or  less  volubly. 
There  were  some  there,  a  handful  of  artists  and  a  few 
thoughtful  men,  who  were  silent,  or  who  «epoke  of  it 


"THE  NEW  ART"  81 

only  amongst  themselves  in  subdued  voices.  They 
recognised,  in  what  had  happened  that  afternoon,  the 
dawn  of  a  new  art,  or  rather  the  regeneration  of  an 
old  one,  and  they  discussed  in  whispers  its  possible 
significance  and  influence.  She  was  an  artist,  that 
woman.  No  one  doubted  it.  But  the  woman  was  there 
as  well  as  the  artist.  Who  was  she?  Would  she 
realize  the  sanctity  of  her  mission,  and  keep  herself 
fit  and  pure  for  its  accomplishment?  Had  she 
character  to  sustain  her,  and  imagination  to  idealize 
her  calling?  She  was  on  a  pinnacle  now,  but  it  was 
a  pinnacle  as  dangerous  as  the  feet  of  woman  could 
press.  If  only  she  could  keep  herself  unspotted 
from  the  world,  which  would  do  its  best  to  drag 
her  down,  they  all  felt,  painter,  poet,  and  musician, 
that  her  influence  with  the  age  might  rank  with 
their  own.  But  was  it  possible?  A  certain  Diana- 
like  coldness  had  been  apparent  to  those  who  had 
the  eyes  to  see  it,  even  in  her  most  voluptuous 
movements.  They  knew  that  it  was  not  assumed  for 
the  sake  of  adding  piquancy  to  her  performance — 
it  was  there  indeed.  But  side  by  side  with  it 
there  were  unprobed  depths  of  passion  in  her  soft, 
deep  eyes;  a  slumbering  passion  even  in  the  sinu- 
ous, graceful  movements  of  every  limb.  Some 
day  the  struggle  would  come,  even  if  it  had  not 


38  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 

already  commenced.  The  woman  against  the  artist 
— the  woman  tempted  and  flattered  by  a  thousand 
tongues,  and  dazzled  with  visions  of  all  those  things 
so  naturally  sweet  to  her,  her  own  nature  even,  so 
keenly  susceptible  to  love  and  sympathy,  siding  with 
the  enemy.  This,  all  against  what?  Only  that  in- 
ward worshipping  of  all  things  sweet  and  pure  and 
lofty,  which  is  the  artist's  second  life.  The  odds  were 
heavy  indeed.  No  wonder  that  the  select  few  who 
spoke  of  her  that  afternoon  should  shake  their  heads 
and  look  grave. 


"A  DANCIA Q  GIRL"  39 


CHAPTER    III 

"  A    DANCING    GIBL  " 

"WHAT  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Paul  started.  He  had  been  standing,  like  a  man  in 
a  dream,  with,  folded  arms,  looking  across  the  room 
with  idle  eyes,  and  unconsciously  ignoring  many  salu- 
tations. His  brother's  tone  sounded  oddly  in  his  ears, 
and  he  looked  flushed  and  a  little  nervous. 

•'  What  did  I  think  of  it!  "  It  was  a  difficult  ques- 
tion to  answer.  He  repeated  it,  and  was  glad  when 
Arthur  spared  him  the  necessity  of  replying,  by  adding 
his  own  opinion. 

"It  was  glorious,  magnificent!  I'm  going  to  find 
out  more  about  her!" 

He  strolled  away,  and  joined  one  of  the  little  groups 
of  men  who  were  discussing  the  performance.  Paul,  at 
first,  had  made  a  gesture  as  though  to  detain  him,  but 
on  second  thoughts  he  had  changed  his  mind.  Better 
let  him  go  and  find  out  what  he  could. 

He  himself  watched  carefully  for  his  opportunity, 
and  then  left  the  room.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  has 
received  a  silent  shock.  Something  fresh  had 


40  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

into  his  life,  noiselessly,  insidiously,  without  effort.  He 
pressed  on  his  hat,  and  passed  down  the  steps  out  into 
the  street,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing. 

The  rush  of  fresh  air  somewhat  revived  him,  and  he 
stood  still  for  a  moment  to  collect  his  thoughts.  He 
felt  the  need  of  absolute  solitude  for  a  while,  to  help 
him  to  realize — or  at  any  rate  to  understand — this 
thing  which  had  happened,  and  with  almost  feverish 
haste  he  called  a  hansom  from  the  other  side  of  the 
road.  The  man  whipped  up  the  horse,  but  hesitated 
as  he  reached  the  pavement.  Looking  around,  Paul 
saw  the  cause  of  his  indecision.  A  woman,  standing 
only  a  few  yards  behind,  had  called  him  at  the  same 
time,  and  was  waiting  also  for  his  approach. 

There  was  a  gas-lamp  between  them,  and  as  their 
eyes  met,  he  recognised  her.  Even  in  that  flickering 
light,  and  through  her  veil,  there  was  no  mistaking 
those  wonderful  eyes.  As  a  rule,  he  was  possessed  of 
as  much  savoir  faire  as  most  men  of  his  class,  but  at 
that  moment  it  had  deserted  him.  He  stood  there  on 
the  edge  of  the  pavement,  without  moving  or  saying 
anything,  simply  looking  at  her,  startled  at  her  sud- 
den appearance,  and  magnetised  by  her  close  presence. 
He  had  heard  no  footfall  behind  him,  and  the  fact  of 
her  being  alone  seemed  so  strange  to  him,  that  he 
simply  could  not  realize  for  a  moment  that  it  was  iu< 


"  A  DANCING  GIRL  "  41 

deed  she  who  stood  BO  close  to  him.  The  cabman, 
leaving  them  to  decide  who  had  the  prior  claim  upon 
him,  sat  motionless,  with  his  eyes  discreetly  fixed 
upon  his  horse's  ears.  It  was  an  odd  little  tableau, 
insignificant  enough  to  a  spectator,  save,  perhaps,  for 
the  curious  look  in  the  woman's  face  and  softly  flash- 
ing eyes.  Yet  it  left  its  mark  for  ever  in  the  lives  of 
the  two  principal  figures. 

The  curious  sensation  which  had  kept  Paul  stand- 
ing there  dazed  and  tongue-tied,  passed  away.  Yet 
it  did  not  immediately  occur  to  him  to  raise  his  hat 
and  walk  on,  as  in  any  ordinary  case  he  would  have 
done.  He  was  conscious  of  the  exact  nature  of  the 
situation,  but  he  felt  a  strong  disinclination  to  leave 
the  spot;  nor,  strangely  enough,  did  she  seem  to 
expect  it.  Yet  something  had  to  be  done. 

He  moved  a  step  nearer  her  He  was  no  school- 
boy, this  tall,  grave-looking  young  Englishman.  The 
lines  across  his  fair,  smooth  forehead,  and  by  his 
close-set  mouth  spoke  for  themselves.  He  had  seen 
life  in  many  aspects,  and  in  a  certain  Indian  jungle 
village,  there  were  natives  and  coolies  who  still  spoke 
admiringly  of  the  wonderful  nerve  and  pluck  of  the 
English  sahib  during  a  terrible  and  unexpected  tiger 
rush.  But  at  that  moment  his  nerve  seemed  to  have 
deserted  him.  He  could  almost  hear  his  heart  beat  as 


42  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

he  took  that  step  forward.  He  had  intended  to  have 
made  some  trifling  apology,  and  to  have  handed  her 
into  the  cab,  but  the  words  would  not  come.  Some 
instinct  seemed  to  revolt  at  the  thought  of  ut- 
tering any  such  commonplacism.  She  was  standing 
on  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  close  to  the  step,  with 
her  skirts  in  one  hand,  slightly  raised.  He  held  out 
his  hand  to  her  in  silence. 

She  gave  him  hers ;  and  yet  she  did  not  at  once  step 
into  the  cab.  She  seemed  to  be  expecting  that  little 
speech  from  him  which  he  found  impossible  to  frame, 
and,  seeing  that  it  did  not  come,  recognising,  perhaps, 
his  suppressed  agitation  behind  that  calm,  almost 
cold,  gravity  of  demeanour,  she  spoke  to  him. 

"It  is  a  shame  to  take  your  cab,  and  leave  you 
in  the  rain  !  I  am  sorry." 

Afterwards  her  admirers  spoke  of  her  voice  as  being 
one  of  her  chief  charms;  to  Paul  it  sounded  like  a  soft 
strain  of  very  sweet,  throbbing  music,  reaching  him 
from  some  far  distant  world.  Yet,  curiously  enough,  it 
went  far  to  dissolve  the  spell  which  her  presence 
seemed  to  have  laid  upon  him.  He  was  able  to 
look  at  her  steadily,  and  standing  upon  the  wet 
pavement  in  the  cold,  grey  light  of  that  November 
afternoon,  their  eyes  met  in  a  long,  searching  gaze.  He 
was  able  even  to  notice  trifles.  He  saw  the  rich  fur 


"A  DANCING  dlRL"  43 

which  lined  her  plain,  black  cloak,  and  he  could  even 
admire  the  absolute  perfection  with  which  it  fol- 
lowed the  lines  of  her  slim,  supple,  figure.  He  saw 
the  glowing  eyes  shining  out  from  her  dusky  face,  and 
the  coils  of  brown  hair,  not  very  securely  fastened  under 
her  turban  hat.  As  she  put  out  her  foot  to  enter  the 
cab,  he  could  even  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  amber  drap- 
eries concealed  by  her  cloak.  A  dancer  !  A  public 
dancer  !  His  eyes  swept  over  her  again,  taking  in 
every  detail  of  her  simple  but  rich  toilette,  and  he 
shivered  slightly.  Then  he  answered  her,  "  It  is  of  no 
consequence,  thank  you.  I  can  walk." 

"  But  you  will  get  very  wet  !  Let  us  make  a  com- 
promise !  You  may  come  with  me.  I  am  going  only  a 
very  little  distance,  and  then  you  can  take  the  cab  on 
to  your  home,  or  wherever  you  want  to  go  to." 

She  stepped  in,  taking  it  for  granted  that  he  would 
accept  her  offer,  and  he  followed  her  at  once.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  surprised.  From  the  first  he  had  not 
expected  to  leave  her,  and  her  invitation  seemed  per- 
fectly natural  to  him.  She  gave  the  cabman  her  ad- 
dress through  the  trap-door,  and  they  drove  off  to- 
gether. 

At  the  corner  of  the  square,  two  men  were  standing  to- 
gether talking,  and  as  the  hansom  passed  within  a  yard 
or  two  of  them  both  glanced  idly  in,  and  then  started. 


44  A  XOtfZ  OF  ORVTA 

Paul,  who  had  been  looking  straight  ahead  of  him,  and 
seeing  nothing,  turned  round,  startled  by  a  familiar 
exclamation,  just  in  time  to  see  his  brother  Arthur, 
and  Leslie  Horton,  gazing  after  the  cab.  The  incident 
troubled  him,  as  much  for  her  sake  as  his  own.  But, 
looking  into  her  face,  he  could  not  see  that  she  was  in 
any  way  disturbed,  although  she  must  have  seen  the 
two  men,  and  would  probably  have  recognised  them  as 
having  been  present  at  Lady  Swindon's  reception.  Her 
face  was  quite  unmoved,  but  in  a  moment  or  two  she 
asked  a  question. 

"  Who  was  the  younger  and  better  looking  of  those 
two  men;  the  one  with  violets  in  his  coat,  like 
yours  ? " 

"It  was  my  brother,"  he  answered  simply.  "I  am 
afraid,  too,  that  he  recognised  you." 

"  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  that  is  of  no  consequence 
at  all,"  she  answered  lightly. 

He  turned  away  with  a  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart. 
He  knew,  too  well,  that  her  carelessness  was  not  as- 
sumed. How  was  he  to  interpret  it  ? 

Their  drive  was  finished  in  silence,  and  they  pulled 
up  before  a  handsome,  though  somewhat  sombre-look- 
ing house  in  a  back  street. 

"My  rooms  are  here,"  she  remarked. 

He  stepped  on  to  the   pavement,  and  assisted  her 


"A  DANCING  GIRL"  45 

to  alight.  The  thought  of  leaving  her  so  abruptly 
was  painful  to  him,  and  yet  he  dreaded  to  hear  her 
invite  him  to  go  in  with  her;  nevertheless,  she  did  so. 

"  If  you  are  not  in  a  hurry,  perhaps  you  will  come 
in,  and  let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said,  looking 
him  full  in  the  face. 

His  heart  sank.  What  was  he  to  think  now  ?  And 
yet  he  was  absurdly  glad  that  he  was  not  to  leave  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course !  I  should  not  have  asked  you  else.  Are 
you  very  much  shocked?  "  she  added,  with  a  mocking 
gleam  in  her  eyes.  "It  is  not  proper,  is  it!  I  con- 
fess I  did  not  think  of  that.  But  do  come,"  she  added, 
with  a  sudden  bewitching  smile. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  answered,  gravely  enough, 
but  truthfully.  He  turned  to  pay  the  cabman,  and  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  house. 

"My  rooms  are  upstairs,"  she  remarked,  leading  the 
way.  "  The  luxury  of  a  first  floor  is  at  present  be- 
yond me." 

Her  words  pleased  him,  but  their  effect  died  away 
when  she  opened  a  door  on  the  first  landing,  and  ush- 
ered him  in.  Such  of  the  interior  of  the  house  as  he 
had  seen  was  handsomely  furnished,  but  the  room  in 
which  he  stood  was  almost  like  a  fairy  chamber.  Cur- 
tains divided  it  in  the  centre,  and  beyond  ha  could  see 
a  table  laid  for  dinner. 


46  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  That  half  I  use  for  a  dining-room,"  she  remarked, 
pointing  towards  it  with  one  of  her  gloves,  which  she 
had  just  taken  off.  "  It  makes  this  room  small,  but  it 
is  a  convenient  arrangement.  Do  sit  down!" 

He  bowed,  but  remained  standing,  with  his  elbow 
resting  upon  the  draped  mantel-board.  She  took  off 
her  hat  and  coat,  hanging  them  over  the  back  of  a 
chair,  and  advanced  towards  him. 

She  was  in  her  dancing  dress,  a  floating  mass  of 
yellow  draperies,  and  the  firelight  gleamed  strangely 
upon  her  dusky,  perfect  face,  with  its  olive  colouring, 
and  soft,  glowing  eyes.  She  came  so  close  to  him 
that  a  faint  odour  from  the  handkerchief  in  her  hand 
stole  up  to  him. 

He  was  playing  with  an  ornament  on  the  shelf, 
and  his  fingers  tightened  convulsively  around  it.  •  It 
snapped  in  two  in  his  hand;  he  did  not  notice  it.  He 
leaned  forward  towards  her,  and  his  strong  voice 
vibrated  with  feeling. 

"  And  it  was  for  this  then,  Adrea  Kiros,  that  you 
ran  away  from  the  convent  St.  Lucilel  My  God!  " 


ADREA'S  DIARY  4? 


CHAPTER   IV 

ADREA'S  DIARY 

TO-DAY  I  have  made  my  entrance  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  drama  of  life.  To-day,  therefore,  I  commence 
my  memoirs.  Everything  before  goes  for  nothing! 

As  I  have  removed  myself  altogether  from  all  asso- 
ciation with  the  humdrum  existence  which  might  have 
been  mine,  I  am  naturally  friendless  for  the  present. 
So  far  as  the  other  sex  is  concerned,  I  fancy  that  that 
could  be  easily  remedied.  But  no  women  are  likely 
to  care  about  making  my  acquaintance,  and  I  am  glad 
of  it.  I  hate  women — men,  too,  I  think!  At  any  rate, 
there  will  be  no  one  of  whom  I  shall  make  a  confidant, 
so  I  have  chosen  you,  my  silent  friend.  I  gave  a 
guinea  for  you  in  Bond  Street,  and  with  your  dainty 
morocco  case  and  binding,  I  think  you  are  well  worth 
it.  At  any  rate,  you  will  be  faithful  so  far  as  silence 
is  concerned. 

To-day  has  been  an  eventful  one.  I  have  made  my 
debut  as  a  dancer,  and  Paul  de  Vaux  has  been  here,  in 
this  house,  alone  with  me!  That  is  hard  to  realize, 


48  A  MONK  OF  OBUTA 

but  it  is  so!  He  has  altered  since  he  used  to  pay  me 
periodical  visits  at  the  convent — and  so  have  I,  I  imag- 
ine! Yet  he  recognised  me!  How  pale  and  stern  he 
looked  when  he  stood  up  on  the  hearthrug  and  called 
me  by  my  name!  He  is  very  handsome — handsomer 
now  even  than  on  that  day  when  he  stood  by,  in  that 
chamber  of  death,  and  saw  my  father  murdered,  with- 
out lifting  his  hand.  Ah!  Paul  de  Vaux,  Paul  de 
Vaux!  that  was  an  evil  day  for  you!  Did  you  never 
think  that  that  little  brown  girl,  as  you  called  her, 
would  grow  up  some  day ;  or  did  you  think  that  she 
would  forget!  Bah!  What  fools  men  are! 

He  remembered  me !  How  grave  he  looked,  and  yet 
how  tender  his  voice  sounded !  He  did  not  forget  that 
he  was  my  guardian,  and  I  his  ward.  How  bewildered 
and  anxious  he  was !  Was  I  living  quite  alone,  had  I 
no  friends,  did  I  think  it  wise  to  lay  myself  open  to  so 
much  notice? 

He  had  come  close  to  my  chair,  and  was  leaning 
down,  so  that  his  head  nearly  touched  mine.  Really, 
when  I  looked  up,  I  thought  that  he  was  going  to  take 
me  into  his  arms.  I  looked  up  and  laughed  softly  into 
his  face. 

He  said  no  more.  I  invited  him  to  dine  with  me, 
and  promised  to  dance  to  him  afterwards.  I  even  let 
my  hand  rest  for  a  moment  upon  his  shoulder,  and 


ADREA'S  DIARY  49 

whispered — but  rfimporie!  He  behaved  just  as  I 
would  have  had  him  behave!  He  took  up  his  hat  and 
walked  straight  out  of  the  room !  It  was  rude,  but  it 
was  magnificent.  Ah!  Paul  de  Vaux!  you  may  strug- 
gle as  long  as  you  like,  but  in  the  end  you  will  be 
mine! 


A  JfONK  OF  CRUTA 


"TKB  FA* -OFF  MUTTERINa  OF  THE  8TORM  T9  GOME5' 

"PAUL!" 

Paul  had  walked,  unannounced  into  his  mother's 
favourite  little  sitting-room  at  Vaux  Court,  tired  and 
travel-stained.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  looked  at  him 
anxiously. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  mother,"  he  said,  stooping 
down  and  kissing  her.  "  There's  nothing  at  all  the 
matter." 

"Arthur  is  well?" 

"Quite  well;  I  was  with  him  yesterday  afternoon. 
There's  nothing  the  matter.  London  was  boring  me, 
that's  all,  and  I  thought  I'd  run  down  here  and  have  a 
Ipok  at  the  old  place,  and  perhaps  a  day's  hunting." 

Relieved  of  her  anxiety,  Mrs.  de  Vaux  was  unaf- 
fectedly pleased  to  see  her  eldest  son.  She  was  a  fine, 
white-haired  old  lady,  dignified  and  handsome,  but 
with  very  few  soft  lines  about  her  comely  face. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  of  course,  Paul  I  The 
meet  is  at  Dytchley  woods  to-morrow!  I  hope  you'!) 


"TEE  FAR-OFF  MUTTERING  OF  THE  STORM"    51 

have  a  good  day.  Take  your  coat  off.  I  have  rung 
for  some  tea." 

"Thanks!  How  bright  and  cheerful  the  fire  seems. 
I  walked  from  the  station,  and  it  was  miserably  cold." 

"Of  course  it  was.  I  wish  I  had  known  you  were 
coming.  We  have  so  little  work  for  the  carriage 
horses." 

"  I  did  not  make  up  my  mind  until  half  an  hour 
before  the  train  started,"  Paul  answered.  "Dick  Oar- 
ruthers  wanted  me  to  run  over  to  Paris  with  him  for  a 
couple  of  days,  and  I  was  undecided  which  to  do.  I 
heard  that  it  was  cold  and  wet  there,  though;  and  there 
is  always  a  charm  about  this  old  place  which  makes 
me  glad  to  come  back  to  it." 

"  There  is  not  such  another  place  in  England,"  his 
mother  remarked,  pouring  out  the  tea.  "Although 
this  is  such  an  outlandish  county,  there  have  been  a 
dozen  people  here  this  week,  asking  to  be  allowed  to 
see  over  the  Abbey.  I  always  give  permission  when 
you  are  away,  and  there  is  no  one  stopping  here." 

Paul  drank  his  tea,  and  stretched  himself  out  in  his 
low  chair  with  an  air  of  comfort. 

'  I  am  glad  you  let  them  see  the  place,  mother,"  he 
said.  "It  is  only  right  What  class  of  people  do 
you  have,  as  a  rule?  Clergymen  and  ecclesiastical 
architects,  I  suppose?" 


52  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"Chiefly.  There  are  a  good  many  Americans, 
though;  and  yesterday,  or  the  day  before,  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest.  He  spent  the  day  in  the  cloisters  and 
wandering  about  the  Abbey,  I  believe." 

Paul  looked  up  suddenly,  and  drew  his  chair  back 
out  of  the  firelight.  For  the  first  time,  his  mother 
noticed  how  pale  and  ghastly  his  face  was. 

"Paul,  are  you  ill?"  she  asked  anxiously.  "What 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  am  only  tired.  It  is  a  long  journey, 
you  know, — and  the  walk  from  the  station.  Indeed,  it 
is  nothing  else.  I  am  quite  well." 

His  mother  resumed  her  seat.  She  had  risen  in 
sudden  alarm.  Her  son's  face  had  frightened  her. 

"You  look  just  as  your  poor  father  used  to  look 
sometimes,"  she  said  softly.  "  It  always  frightened 
me.  It  was  as  though  you  had  a  pain  somewhere,  or 
had  suddenly  seen  a  ghost.  You  are  sure  you  are 
well?" 

"  Quite,  mother !  You  need  have  no  fear.  Arthur 
and  I  have  your  constitution,  I  think." 

His  tone  was  deeper,  almost  hollow.  He  still  kept 
his  chair  back  amongst  the  shadows.  Mrs.  de  Vaux 
was  only  partially  satisfied. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  keeping  too  late  hours, 
Paul,  or  reading  too  much.  Lord  Westover  was  say- 


"THE  FAR-OFF  MUTTERING  OF  THE  STORM"    58 

ing  the  other  day  that  you  were  in  a  very  Bohemian 
set — journalists  and  artists,  and  those  sort  of  people. 
I  am  afraid  they  keep  awful  hours." 

"Lord  Westover  knows  nothing  about  it,"  Paul 
answered  wearily.  "  Ordinary  London  society  would 
tire  me  to  death  in  a  fortnight.  There  is  another  class 
of  people,  though,  whose  headquarters  are  in  London, 
far  more  cultured,  and  quite  as  exclusive,  with  whom 
association  is  a  far  greater  distinction.  I  can  go  any- 
where in  the  first  set,  because  I  am  Paul  de  Vaux,  of 
Vaux  Abbey,  and  have  forty  thousand  a  year.  I  am 
permitted  to  enter  the  other  only  as  the  author  of  an 
unfashionable  novel,  which  a  few  of  them  have  thought 
leniently  of.  Which  seem  the  worthier  conditions  ?  " 

"I  am  answered,  Paul.  Of  course,  in  a  sense,  you 
are  right.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  the  twaddle  of  a 
London  drawing-room  would  fall  strangely  upon  my 
ears  now,  but  I  had  my  share  of  it  before  Arthur  was 
born.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  should  want  variety, — a 
little  sauce, — and  you  are  right  to  seek  for  it.  And 
now,  won't  you  go  and  have  a  bath,  and  change  your 
things.  You  still  look  pale,  and  I  think  it  would 
refresh  you.  Shall  I  ring  for  Reynolds?  I  suppose 
you  have  not  brought  your  own  man?" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  arrested  her  fingers 
upon  the  bell.  "  In  a  moment,  mother.  It  is  so  com- 


54  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

foi-table  here,  and  I  really  think  it  is  my  favourite 
room." 

He  looked  round  approvingly.  It  was  a  curious, 
hexagonal  chamber,  with  an  oak-beamed  ceiling,  curv- 
ing into  a  dome.  The  walls  were  hung  with  a  won- 
derful tapestry  of  a  soft,  rich  colour,  and  every  piece 
of  furniture  in  the  room  was  of  the  Louis  Quinze 
period.  There  was  scarcely  a  single  anachronism. 
The  Martin  de  Vaux  of  forty  years  ago  had  been  an 
artist,  and  a  man  of  taste ;  and  when  he  had  brought 
home  his  bride,  a  duke's  daughter,  he  had  spent  a 
small  fortune  on  this  apartment.  Since  then  it  had 
always  been  her  favourite,  and  she  was  always  glad  to 
hear  any  one  praise  it. 

"I  seldom  sit  in  any  other,"  she  remarked  compla- 
cently. "  The  blue  drawing-room  is  open  to-night,  but 
that  is  because  Lord  and  Lady  Westover  are  dining 
here.  I  am  afraid  May  will  not  be  able  to  come ;  she 
has  a  cold  or  something  of  the  sort.  I  wonder  whether 
it  is  true,  what  they  say,  that  she  is  delicate." 

Paul  did  not  appear  much  interested.  He  had  a 
purpose  in  lingering  here,  and  it  had  nothing  to  do 
with  May  Westover's  health.  There  was  a  little  infor- 
mation he  wished  to  obtain  without  exciting  his 
mother's  curiosity.  But  it  was  not  exactly  an  easy 
matter. 


"THE  FAR-OFF  MUTTERING  OF  THE  STORM"    55 

"  I  was  interested  in  what  you  said  about  the  vis- 
itors here,"  he  remarked.  "  I  daresay  to  Americans 
this  place  must  be  very  interesting." 

"You   would  think  so   if  you  saw  some  of  them. 

They  are  a  great  deal  too  inquisitive  and  familiar 
for  Reynolds.  He  detests  them.  It  is  far  more  inter- 
esting to  think  of  that  Catholic  priest  who  was  here 
the  other  day.  He  lingered  about  the  place  as  though 
he  had  known  it  all  his  life,  and  loved  it;  and,  Rey- 
nolds says,  he  prayed  for  two  hours  in  the  chapel." 

"Did  you  see  him  yourself?" 

"  Yes,  in  the  distance.  I  did  not  notice  him  par- 
ticularly. I  wished  afterwards  that  I  had.  Reynolds' 
report  of  him  pleased  me  so  much.  I  daresay  he  was 
conjuring  up  pictures  of  the  days  when  the  old  Abbey 
was  full  of  grey-hooded  monks,  and  the  chapel  was 
echoing  day  and  night  to  their  solemn  chants  and 
prayers.  Sometimes,  in  the  gloaming,  I  can  almost 
fancy  myself  that  I  see  them  kneeling  in  long  rows  in 
those  rich  stalls,  and  hear  the  rustle  of  their  gowns  as 
they  pass  slowly  down  the  aisles.  I  think  he  must 
have  found  it  sad  to  linger  about  in  that  beautiful 
chapel,  so  cold,  and  empty,  and  bare.  That  is  why  I 
like  Roman  Catholics.  They  have  such  a  strong  rev- 
erential affection  for  their  places  of  worship,  and  take 
such  a  delight  in  adorning  them.  It  is  almost  like  a 
personal  love." 


56  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Paul  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  looked  steadily 
into  the  fire.  "  Then  you  did  not  notice  hiip  particu 
larly?" 

"  Notice  him !     Notice  whom  ?  n 

"  This  priest,  or  whoever  he  was." 

"I  did  not  see  his  face,  Paul,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean.  I  only  remember  that  he  was  tall.  You  se<wa 
very  much  interested  in  him.  No  doubt  Reynolds 
could  tell  you  anything  you  wish  to  know.  Here  he 
is;  you  had  better  ask  him." 

A  grey-headed  man-servant  had  entered,  bearing  a 
lamp.  Mrs.  de  Vaux  turned  to  him. 

"  Reynolds,  Mr.  Paul  is  interested  in  hearing  about 
the  priest  who  spent  so  much  time  looking  over  the 
Abbey  yesterday.  Can  you  describe  him?" 

Reynolds  set  down  the  lamp  and  turned  respectfully 
around.  "Not  very  well,  I'm  afraid,  sir,"  he  said 
doubtfully.  "  They  all  seem  so  much  alike,  you  know, 
sir,  in  those  long  gowns.  He  was  tall,  rather  thin, 
and  no  hair  on  his  face  at  all.  I  can't  say  that  I 
noticed  anything  else,  except  that  he  spoke  in  rather  a 
foreign  accent." 

"You  are  sure  he  was  a  priest,  I  suppose,"  Paul 
asked  carelessly.  "  We  hear  so  much  now  of  impost- 
ors, and  of  things  being  stolen  from  places  of  interest, 
that  it  makes  one  feel  suspicious." 


"THE  FAR-OFF  MUTTERING  OF  THE  STORM"    57 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  was  no  impostor,  sir."  Eeynolds 
answered  confidently.  "He  was  too  interested  in  the 
place  for  that.  He  knew  its  history  better  than  any 
one  who  has  ever  been  here  in  my  day.  If  he  had 
been  one  of  those  sneaking  sort  of  fellows,  looking 
about  for  what  he  could  get,  he  would  have  offered  me 
money,  and  tried  to  get  rid  of  me  for  a  time,  I  think, 
sir." 

"That's  true,"  Paul  remarked.  "Were  you  with 
him  all  the  time,  then  ?  " 

"Very  nearly,  sir.  He  did  not  like  my  leaving 
him  at  all.  He  was  afraid  of  missing  something  worth 
seeing.  Besides,  he  did  not  ask  to  come  into  the 
house  at  all,  not  even  to  see  the  pictures.  He  spent 
all  his  time  in  the  ruins. 

"  That  ends  the  matter,  of  course,"  Paul  answered 
shortly.  "  There  is  nothing  out  there  to  attract  pil- 
ferers. Sorry  I  said  anything  about  it." 

"He  asked  whether  you  spent  much  of  your  time 
here,  and  when  you  would  be  down  again,  sir," 
Reynolds  remarked,  as  he  turned  to  quit  the  room. 

Paul  looked  up,  and  then  stood  quite  still  for  a  mo- 
ment without  speaking.  A  great  fear  had  fallen  upon 
him.  Out  of  the  shadows  of  the  past,  he  seemed  to 
see  again  that  deathbed  scene,  and  the  tragedy  which 
had  brought  down  the  curtain  upon  two  lives.  Almost 


58  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

he  could  fancy  himself  again  upon  his  yacht,  with  the 
salt  sea  spray  beating  against  his  face,  and  the  white 
breakers  hissing  and  seething  around  him,  as  they 
made  the  dangerous  passage  towards  that  faint  light, 
which  flickered  and  gleamed  in  the  distant  monastery 
tower.  They  are  safe!  They  reach  the  land;  they  are 
hurried  into  that  great,  gloomy  bed-chamber,  where 
chill  draughts  rustled  ghost-like  amongst  the  heavy, 
faded  hangings,  and  the  feeble  candlelight  left  weird 
shadows  moving  across  the  floor  and  upon  the  walls. 
Again  he  heard  the  rattling  of  the  window-panes,  bare 
and  exposed  to  every  gust  of  wind;  the  far-off  thunder 
of  the  sea,  like  a  deep,  continuous  undernote;  and, 
from  an  almost  unseen  corner  of  the  chamber,  the 
monotonous,  broken  rhythm  of  sad  prayers  for  the  dy- 
ing, mumbled  by  that  dark,  curious-looking  priest. 
And  then,  when  the  background  of  the  picture  had 
formed  itself  in  his  memory,  he  saw  the  deed  itself. 
He  saw  the  white,  stricken  face  suddenly  ablaze  with 
that  last  effort  of  passionate  life;  he  saw  the  out- 
stretched arm,  the  line  of  fire,  and  the  sudden  change 
in  the  countenance  of  the  man  who  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  He  saw  the  cool  cynicism  replaced  by  a 
spasm  of  ghastly  fear,  and  he  heard  the  low,  gurgling 
cry  dying  away  into  a  faint  moan  of  terror,  as  the  mur- 
dered man  sank  on  to  the  floor,  a  crumpled  heap.  And, 


"THE  FAR-OFF  MUTTERING  OF  TSff  STORM"    59 

last  of  all,  he  saw  that  little  brown  girl,  with  her  tum- 
bled hair  and  tear-stained  face,  clasping  the  dead  body 
and  glaring  at  every  one  in  the  room,  with  a  storm  of 
hatred  and  impotent  fury  in  her  flashing  eyes.  And 
that  last  recollection  brought  him,  like  a  flash,  back  to 
the  present, — brought  him  swift,  bewildering  memories 
of  Adrea,  shaking  his  heart,  and  bringing  the  hot 
colour  streaming  into  his  face.  He  remembered  where 
he  was,  and  why  he  had  left  London.  He  remembered, 
too,  that  he  was  not  alone,  and  with  a  little  start  he 
awoke  to  the  present. 

Keynolds  had  left  the  room,  and  his  mother  was 
watching  him  curiously.  He  found  it  hard  to  meet 
her  steady,  questioning  gaze  without  flinching. 

"  Paul,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  are  in  trouble." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It  is  nothing,  mother — noth- 
ing at  all.  I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon  for  letting  my 
thoughts  run  away  with  me  so." 

She  was  too  proud  to  ask  him  for  his  confidence, 
and  at  that  moment  the  rumbling  of  a  gong  reached 
them  from  the  distant  hall.  Mrs.  de  Vaux  rose: — 

"  There  are  a  few  people  dining  here,  Paul,  so  you 
will  not  be  late." 

"  I  will  be  down,  mother.  The  usual  time,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Yes,  eight  o'clock." 


«0  A  HONK  Of  CRUTA 

They  left  the  room  together,  but  parted  in  the  hall. 
Mrs.  de  Vaux  stayed  to  speak  to  the  housekeeper  for  a 
moment,  and  Paul  ascended  the  broad  staircase  alone. 
On  the  first  corridor  he  paused,  standing  before  the 
deep-cushioned  sill  of  a  high-arched  window,  and  gaz- 
ing at  the  ruined  portion  of  the  abbey.  The  air  out- 
side was  frosty  and  clear,  and  though  the  moon  as  yet 
was  only  faintly  yellow,  every  arch  and  cloister  was 
clearly  visible.  Paul  gazed  down  at  them,  as  he  had 
done  all  his  life,  with  reverent  eyes.  There  was  some- 
thing almost  awesome  in  the  graceful  yet  bold  outline, 
and  in  the  great  age  of  those  rugged,  moss-grown  pil- 
lars and  arches,  so  ecclesiastical  in  their  shape  and 
suggestiveness, — as  indeed  they  might  well  be,  for  they 
were  practically  the  ruins  of  the  old  monastery  chapel. 
But,  as  he  looked,  the  expression  in  his  eyes  suddenly 
changed.  A  dark  figure  had  passed  slowly  out  from 
the  shadow  of  the  arches,  and  stood  looking  up  towards 
the  house,  rigid,  solemn,  and  motionless.  Paul  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sank  down  upoc  the 
cushioned  window-sill. 


"AN  ASHEN  GREY  DELIGST" 


CHAPTER  VI 

"AN   ASHEN   GREY   DELIGMT" 
"MB.  DEVAUX  !" 

Paul  turned  quickly  around  in  his  saddle  towards 
the  young  lady  who  had  addressed  him.  He  looked 
into  a  fair,  thoughtful  face,  whose  general  amiability 
was  discounted,  just  then,  by  a  decided  frown. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  May  !  Didn't  you  say 
something  just  now  ?  " 

"  Didn't  I  say  something  just  now  !  "  she  repeated, 
with  fine  scorn.  "  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  de  Vaux,  I 
think  that  you  must  have  left  your  wits  in  London  ! 
What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

"  The  matter  !     Why,  nothing  !     I'm  sorry " 

"  Oh  !  pray  don't  apologise  !  "  she  interrupted  hast- 
ily. "  I  think  I'll  ride  on  and  catch  papa  up." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  rein.  "Please  don't, 
Lady  May,"  he  begged.  "  I  know  I've  been  inattent- 
ive !  I'm  very  sorry — really  I  am.  Let  me  try  and 
make  up  for  it !  " 

She  looked  into  his  face,  and  she  was  mollified.  He 
was  evidently  in  earnest. 


62  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  Oh  !  very  well,"  she  said.  *'  You  mustn't  think 
that  I  complained  without  due  cause,  though,  for  I 
spoke  to  you  three  times  before  you  answered  me.  Oh, 
it's  all  right,"  she  went  on,  as  he  commenced  to  frame 
another  apology.  "I  don't  mind  now,  but  I  really 
should  like  to  know  what  is  the  matter  with  you.  You 
have  ridden  all  day  like  a  man  who  valued  neither  his 
own  life  nor  his  horse's.  Some  of  your  jumps  were 
simply  reckless  !  I  have  heard  other  people  say  so, 
too!  I  like  bold  riding,  but  their  is  a  limit;  and 
though  I've  ridden  two  hounds  since  papa  gave  me  my 
first  pony,  I've  never  seen  any  one  try  to  jump  Annis- 
forth  brook  below  the  bridge,  before, — and  don't  want 
to  again,"  she  added,  with  a  little  shudder.  "  I  know 
you  ride  fine  horses,  but  you  are  not  generally  fool- 
hardy. I  saw  your  dark  bay  mare  being  taken  home 
at  Colbourne  Spinneys,  and  I  don't  think  she'll  be  fit 
to  ride  again  this  season.  Old  Harrison  had  tears  in 
his  eyes  when  he  saw  her  ! " 

"  Harrison  is  an  old  woman  about  horses  !  I  never 
touched  Meg  with  the  spurs.  She  was  as  fresh  as  paint, 
and  there  was  no  holding  her." 

"  You  can't  deceive  me  or  yourself,"  Lady  May  con- 
tinued calmly.  "  You  have  been  riding  for  a  fall,  all 
day,  and  you  may  think  yourself  pretty  fortunate  that 
you  haven't  a  broken  neck.  It  seemed  as  though  you 


"AN  ASHEN  GRET  DELIGHT  "  63 

were  trying  for  one.  And  now  that  you  haven't  suc- 
ceeded, you  have  nearly  ridden  ten  miles  alone  with 
me,  and  scarcely  opened  your  mouth.  You  are  very 
provoking,  Mr.  de  Vaux.  I  wish  I  had  ridden  home 
with  Captain  Fellowes." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  reminding  her  that  the  ar- 
rangement had  not  been  of  his  making,  but  he  checked 
himself.  After  all,  Lady  May  had  some  grounds  for 
her  irritation.  They  had  been  friends  since  they  had 
been  children,  and  Paul  knew  that  every  one  expected 
him,  someday,  to  ask  Lady  May  to  become  the  mistress 
of  Vaux  Abbey.  There  had  been  a  little  more  than 
intimacy  even  in  their  friendship  up  till  twelve  months 
ago  ;  and  Paul  had  certain  recollections  of  their  last 
interview,  which  had  made  him  more  than  once  a  trifle 
uneasy.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Lady  May  had  quite 
made  up  her  mind  that  Paul  de  Vaux  would  certainly 
ask  her  to  marry  him  some  time  :  and  she  had,  on  his 
account,  refused  two  very  eligible  offers.  Their  people 
desired  it,  and,  in  her  heart,  Lady  May  was  conscious 
that  Paul  was  a  little  more  to  her  than  any  other  man 
could  be.  So  she  felt  herself  at  first,  aggrieved  by  his 
long  silence  during  their  ride  home,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  she  had  carefully  planned  for,  and  afterwards 
was  just  on  the  verge  of  being  seriously  offended. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  please,"  he  said  quietly. 


64  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"You  are  right;  something  is  the  matter.  I  am  wor- 
ried." 

She  was  sympathetic  and  kindly  at  onoo.  "  I'm  so 
sorry.  Please  forgive  me  for  bothering  you.  You 
used  to  tell  me  your  troubles  once!  Are  we  too  old 
now?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  hope  we  never  shall  be,"  he 
said.  "  I  can't  tell  you  all,  but  one  thing  is  this.  I 
had  a  letter  from  a  man  in  town  to-day — a  man  whom 
I  can  trust — about  Arthur.  You  know  what  an  im- 
pressionable, sensitive  boy  he  is.  Anyone  who  ones 
obtains  an  influence  over  him  can  do  nearly  what  they 
like  with  him.  He  seems — so  my  correspondent  tells 
me — to  have  become  completely  fascinated  with  a — a 
— dancer — Adrea  Kiros  I  think  she  calls  herself." 

"  I  have  heard  of  her,"  Lady  May  murmured.  "  She 
dances  only  at  private  houses,  I  think.  Everyone  says 
she  is  wonderful." 

"She  is — wonderful,"  Paul  said  slowly.  He  was 
about  to  say  more,  but  he  checked  himself.  Lady 
May  was  watching  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
speak  of  Adrea  Kiros  unmoved.  So  he  went  on: — 

"  I  am  not  complaining,  for  after  all  it  is  perfectly 
natural,  but  Arthur  is  certainly  his  mother's  favorite 
son.  You  know  how  strict  she  is  in  some  of  her  no- 
tions; so  you  can  understand  what  a  shock  it  would  be 


"AN  ASHEN  GRE7  DELIGHT*  66 

to  her  if  any  rumors  were  to  reach  her  ears.  It  would 
be  a  terrible  blow  to  her.  But,  apart  from  that,  the 
thing  is  serious  in  itself.  Arthur  was  always  delicate, 
and  Cis — my  friend — speaks  of  him  as  looking  ghastly 
ill.  The  girl  is  probably  only  amusing  herself,  al- 
though she  seems  to  have  given  him  plenty  of  encour- 
agement. But  I  know  Ad — Adrea  Kiros.  She  is  no 
ordinary  girl  of  her  class.  In  the  whole  world  I  doubt 
if  there  breathes  a  more  dangerous  woman,"  he  wound 
up,  in  a  low  tone. 

Lady  May  was  quite  sympathetic  now,  but  a  little 
mystified.  "  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  softly.  "  Ought 
you  not  to  go  to  London,  and  try  what  your  influence 
can  do  with  him  ?  That  is  disinterested  advice,  at  any 
rate,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh,  "for  I  don't 
want  you  to  go.  But  Arthur  always  seemed  to  look 
up  to  you  so!  You  might  be  able  to  get  him  away. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  could 
get  him  down  here?  We  would  make  it  as  lively  as 
possible  for  him  up  at  the  Castle ;  and,  I  don't  know 
how  your  preserves  are,  but  ours  have  been  scarcely 
touched  yet.  Between  the  two  of  us,  at  any  rate,  he 
could  have  as  much  shooting  as  he  liked.  And  I 
would  ask  the  Fergusson  girls  to  come  and  stay,"  she 
went  on,  getting  more  and  more  in  love  with  her  plan. 
"  He  was  se  much  taken  with  Amy,  you  know,  when 


66  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

they  were  down  here  before.  We  could  get  up  some 
theatricals,  or  something,  and  have  quite  a  good  time. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  plan?" 

He  was  thankful  for  her  long  speech,  for  it  had  en- 
abled him  to  get  over  the  slight  agitation  which  the 
thought  of  that  unavoidable  journey  to  London  had 
called  up  in  him.  From  the  first  he  had  felt  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  go.  He  had  received  this  disquieting 
letter  two  days  ago,  and  since  then  he  had  telegraphed 
twice,  and  written  to  Arthur  without  getting  any  reply. 
Yes,  he  must  go.  And  mingled  with  that  reluctance 
and  nameless  apprehension  which  he  felt  at  the 
thought  of  returning  into  her  neighbourhood,  he  was 
acutely  conscious,  all  the  time,  of  a  certain  vague  but 
sweet  pleasure  at  the  thought  that  fate  had  so  or- 
dained it.  Perhaps  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to 
see  her!  A  thrill  of  pleasure  passed  through  him  at 
the  thought,  followed  almost  immediately  by  a  reac- 
tion of  keen  and  bitter  disgust  with  himself.  He  set 
his  teeth,  and  quite  unconsciously  dug  his  spurs  into 
his  horse's  sides,  with  the  natural  result  that  she 
reared  up,  almost  unseating  him,  and  then  plunged 
forward.  He  had  to  gallop  her  along  the  road  for  a 
few  hundred  yards,  and  then  turned  round  and  re- 
joined Lady  May.  Fortunately  she  had  not  seen  the 
commencement  of  the  little  episode. 

"Whatever  was  the  matter?  "  she  asked. 


*A&  ASHEN  GREY  DELIGHT"  67 

"I  fancy  my  spurs  must  have  pricked  her,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "I  was  riding  quite  carelessly." 

"  Well,  please  don't  let  it  happen  again,"  she 
begged,  eyeing  his  mare's  flanks  suspiciously.  "  Dandy 
is  very  tired  now,  and  is  generally  good  tempered ; 
but  I  don't  think  he  would  stand  much  of  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  I'm  really  very  sorry,"  he  said. 

She  nodded.  "  All  right.  And  now,  what  do  you 
think  of  my  plan  ?  Are  you  going  to  London  ?  " 

"  I  think  your  plan  is  a  very  good  one  indeed,  and 
I  shall  run  up  to  town  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
very  good  of  you  to  be  so  interested. " 

He  looked  down  into  her  face,  a  fair,  sweet  face  it 
was,  and  then  glanced  away  over  the  bare  moorland 
which  stretched  on  one  side  of  them.  It  was  a  late 
November  afternoon,  and  a  faint  yellow  light  was  lin- 
gering in  the  west,  where  the  sun  had  just  set,  colour- 
ing the  clouds  which  stretched  across  the  sky  in  long, 
level  streaks.  A  fresh,  healthy  breeze,  strong  with  the 
perfume  of  the  sea,  blew  in  their  teeth,  and  afar  off 
they  could  hear  the  waves  dashing  against  the  iron- 
be  and  line  of  northern  cliffs.  Inland,  the  country  was 
more  cultivated,  but  hilly  and  broken  up  with  masses 
of  lichen-covered  rock,  and  little  clumps  of  thin  fir 
trees.  He  knew  the  scenery  so  well.  The  rugged, 


68  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

barren  country,  with  its  great  stretches  of  moorland 
and  little  patches  of  cultivated  land,  with  its  sileut 
tarns,  its  desolation,  and  the  ever-varying  music  of  the 
sea,  they  all  meant  home  to  him,  and  he  loved  them. 
It  had  always  been  so,  and  yet  he  felt  it  at  that  mo- 
ment as  he  had  never  felt  it  before.  The  prospect  of 
that  journey  to  London  was  suddenly  loathsome  to 
him.  The  clear,  physical  healthfulness  of  his  North- 
country  home  was  triumphant,  for  the  moment,  over 
that  other  passion,  which  seemed  to  him  then  weak  and 
artificial.  It  seemed  to  him  also,  looking  down  into 
Lady  May's  fresh,  thoughtful  face,  that  she  was  some- 
how in  accord  with  these  surroundings, — that  she  was, 
indeed,  the  link,  the  safeguard  which  should  bind  him 
to  them,  the  good  influence  which  should  keep  him  fit 
to  breathe  God's  pure  air,  and  to  keep  himself,  as  he 
had  ever  striven  to,  saws  peur  ei  sans  reproche.  Paul 
was  no  sentimentalist,  in  the  idle  and  common  sense 
of  the  word.  In  his  attitude  to  every-day  life,  he  was 
essentially  practical,  sometimes  perhaps  a  little  too 
practical.  But  he  was  capable  of  strong  feeling,  and 
it  came  then  with  a  rush.  He  leant  over  towards  Lady 
May,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  saddle. 

"  You  are  very  kind  and  sympathetic,"  he  said  softly. 
"  You  are  always  kind." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  pleased,  and  with  a  soft  look 


"AN  ASHEN  GRE  T  DELIGHT  "  69 

in  lier  deep  grey  eyes.  "  You  do  not  give  me  very 
much  opportunity,"  she  said  quietly.  "At  one  time 
you  used  to  tell  me  all  your  troubles ;  do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"Yes!  I  remember,"  he  answered,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per, for  they  were  riding  up  a  grass-grown  avenue, — 
a  back  way  to  the  Abbey, — and  their  horses'  hoofs  sank 
noiselessly  into  the  soft  turf.  "Sometimes  I  have 
dared  to  hope  that  those  days  may  come  again." 

She  was  silent,  and  her  head  was  turned  away  lest 
he  might  see  the  tears  trembling  in  her  eyes.  So  they 
rode  on  for  a  moment  or  two,  walking  their  horses  in 
the  dim  twilight ;  she  in  the  shadow  of  the  grey  wall 
and  the  overhanging  trees,  and  he  very  close  to  her, 
with  his  hand  still  upon  her  saddle  and  his  reins  loose 
in  his  hand. 

"  If  ever  they  did,  if  ever  I  was  so  fortunate,"  he 
went  on  in  a  low  tone,  "  you  would  find  your  office  no 
sinecure.  I  have  troubles,  or  rather,  one  trouble,  and 
a  great  one,  May." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  full  of 
sympathy.  She  dimly  remembered  the  time  when 
strange  stories  were  current  in  the  county  of  Martin 
de  Vaux,  and  their  echo  had  remained  for  years.  It 
was  not  for  her  to  inquire  about  them,  and  she  never 
had  done  so.  But  that  their  burden  should  have  fallen 


70  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

upon  Paul;  it  was  hard!  Her  heart  was  sore  with  the 
injustice  of  it.  A  woman  is  a  swift  and  censorious 
judge  of  any  one  who  brings  trouble  upon  the  man  she 
loves. 

He  was  a  little  closer  to  her  still;  and  suddenly  the 
hand  which  carried  her  small  whip  felt  itself  grasped 
in  strong  fingers  and  held  tightly. 

«  May " 

It  was  not  his  fault  this  time  that  his  mare  stood 
still,  and  then  ran  backwards,  dislodging  the  topmost 
stones  from  the  grey  stone  wall  with  her  hind  quar- 
ters, and  then  plunging  violently.  This  time  there 
was  cause  for  her  alarm.  A  tall,  forbidding-looking 
figure  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  avenue,  grasping  the 
rein  of  Lady  May's  terrified  horse.  He  had  come  out 
of  the  twilight  so  suddenly,  and  his  attire  was  so  un- 
usual, that  Paul  and  Lady  May  were  almost  as  sur- 
prised as  the  animals.  Paul's  first  instinct  was  one  of 
anger. 

"What  the " 

He  stopped  short.  The  man  who  had  startled  them 
so  had  quieted  Lady  May's  horse  with  a  few  soothing 
words,  and  now  stood  out  of  the  deep  shade  of  the  over- 
hanging trees  into  the  centre  of  the  avenue.  Even 
here  his  face  was  scarcely  visible,  but  his  figure  and 
attire  were  sufficient.  He  wore  the  long  robes  and 
shovel  hat  of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest 


"AN  ASHEN  GMEY  DELIGHT"  7t 

Paul  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  his  exclamation,  and 
the  arm  which  had  been  grasping  his  whip  tightly  sank 
nervelessly  to  his  side.  He  was  thankful  for  the  twi- 
light, which  concealed  the  grey  shade  which  had  stolen 
into  his  face.  Yet  now  that  the  blow  had  fallen,  he 
was  calmer  than  he  had  been  in  some  of  his  anticipa- 
tions of  it.  For  it  had  indeed  fallen!  In  the  dusky 
twilight  he  had  recognised  the  face  of  the  priest, 
changed  though  it  was.  He  rode  up,  and  addressed 
him. 

"  Have  you  lost  your  way  ? "  he  asked  quietly. 
"  This  is  a  private  road,  and  the  gate  at  the  other  end 
is  locked." 

The  priest  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment,  and 
then  drew  on  one  side,  as  though  to  let  them  pass. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  startled  your  horses,"  he  said,  in 
a  soft,  pleasant  voice,  marked  with  a  strong  foreign  ac- 
cent; "I  was  standing  with  my  back  to  you,  waiting 
for  the  moon  to  rise  behind  the  ruins  there,  and  the 
soft  ground  made  your  approach  noiseless.  And,  if  I 
am  trespassing,  I  am  sorry.  The  steward  at  the  Ab- 
bey yonder  gave  me  permission  to  wander  anywhere 
around  the  ruins.  I  have  perhaps  exceeded  a  little  his 
bounds." 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  Paul  said.  "  You  find 
the  ruins  interesting,  then?" 

"Veiy." 


73  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

"  There  are  some  pictures  in  the  Abbey  you  might 
care  to  see — mostly  modern,  but  there  is  a  Kubens  and 
two  Giorgiones." 

The  priest  removed  his  hat  "  I  thank  you,  but  I 
am  only  interested  in  ecclesiastical  art.  These  ruins 
are  more  to  me  than  any  pictures — save  those  which 
Rome  alone  possesses,"  he  added.  "  I  spend  all  my 
evenings  here,  and  hope  to  be  allowed  to,  for  the  short 
time  that  I  remain  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"  You  have  my  permission  to  come  and  go  as  you 
please.  I  am  Mr.  de  Vaux,"  Paul  said,  touching  his 
horse  with  the  whip.  "Good-evening!  " 

"  Good-evening,  sir !  Good-evening,  madam !  I  thank 
you!" 

They  rode  on  down  the  avenue,  Paul  silent  and  ab- 
sorbed, and  making  no  attempt  to  pursue  the  conver- 
sation. At  the  bend  of  the  lane  he  turned  round  in  his 
saddle.  The  priest  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
them,  motionless  and  silent  as  a  figure  of  stoiia. 


"WHO  ARE  YOU,  AND  WHAT  TOUR  MISSION?"    73 


CHAPTER  VII 

"WHO  ABE   YOU,  AND   WHAT   YOUB   MISSION?" 

THE  winter  moon,  soft  and  bright  and  full,  looked 
down  upon  the  ruins  of  Vaux  Abbey.  A  strange  beauty 
lay  upon  the  bare,  rock-strewn  hillside  and  desolate 
moor.  Afar  off  a  grey,  brawling  stream  was  touched 
by  its  light,  and  in  its  place  a  band  of  gold  seemed 
coiled  around  the  grey,  sleeping  hill.  A  black,  reed- 
grown  tarn  at  the  foot  of  the  Abbey  gleamed  and  quiv- 
ered like  a  fair  silver  shield.  The  dark  pines  which 
crowned  their  sandy  slopes  lost  their  forbidding  frown 
in  an  unaccustomed  softness,  and  every  harsh  line  and 
broken  pillar  of  the  ruined  chapel  was  toned  down 
into  a  rich,  sad  softness.  A  human  face,  too,  uplifted 
to  the  sky,  so  silent  and  motionless  that  it  seemed 
almost  set  into  the  side  of  one  of  those  groined  arches, 
had  lost  all  its  harshness  and  worldliness  in  the  glow 
of  that  falling  light.  It  might  have  been  the  face  of 
a  saint,  save  for  the  vague  unhappiness  which  shone  in 
the  clear,  dark  eyes ;  for  at  that  moment,  spirituality, 
wistfulness,  and  reverence  seemed  carved  into  the 


74  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

white,  still  features.  But  there  was  disquiet,  too;  and, 
after  a  while,  as  though  some  cloud  had  passed  across 
the  moon,  a  dark  shade  stole  into  the  white  face.  The 
brows  were  contracted  into  a  frown,  and  the  eyes  filled 
with  restless  doubt.  Father  Adrian  moved  away  from 
the  shadow  of  the  pillar,  and  stood,  tall  and  motion- 
less, on  the  ruined  chapel  floor,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  distant  landscape.  After  a  moment  or  two, 
his  lips  began  to  move  and  he  commenced  to  speak 
aloud  in  a  low,  deep  tone. 

"Six  nights  has  my  voice  gone  up  to  God  from 
amongst  these  silent  ruins,  six  nights  I  have  prayed  in 
vain.  These  fair,  still  evenings  mock  me!  Whose  is 
their  beauty,  if  it  be  not  God's;  and,  if  there  be  a 
God,  and  if  the  Blessed  Virgin,  our  Holy  Mother,  in- 
deed dwells  amongst  the  stars,  why  are  their  faces 
turned  from  me  ?  Oh !  that  man  knew  a  little  more  or 
a  little  less — enough  to  pierce  the  mystery  of  yon  star- 
crowned  heavens,  or  so  little  as  to  gaze  on  them  un- 
moved and  unfeeling !  What  is  our  little  knowledge  ? 
A  mockery,  a  dreary,  hopeless  mockery!  I  had  better 
have  rotted  in  that  miserable  monastery,  a  soulless,  life- 
less being,  than  have  stepped  out  to  struggle  with  a 
world  which  is  only  a  terrible  riddle  to  me.  I  cannot 
reason  with  it;  I  cannot  laugh  or  weep  with  it;  I  am 
in  it,  but  not  of  it!  Why  was  I  sent?  Oh!  why  was 
I  sent?" 


"WHO  ARE  YOU,  AND  WHAT  TOUR  MISSION?"    75 

The  snapping  of  a  twig  caused  him  to  turn  suddenly 
round.  Paul  de  Vaux  was  advancing  through  the 
ruins,  with  a  loose  cloak  thrown  over  his  evening 
clothes. 

Father  Adrian  turned  round  to  meet  him.  The  two 
men  stood  for  a  moment  face  to  face  without  speaking. 
Both  recognised  that  this  interview  was  to  be  no  ordin- 
ary one;  and  in  a  certain  sense,  each  seemed  to  be 
measuring  the  other's  strength.  It  was  Paul  who 
spoke  first. 

"We  have  met  before,  Father  Adrian." 

"Yes." 

"You  will  scarcely  wonder  that  I  am  surprised  to  see 
you  here  in  England.  Have  you  left  the  monastery 
at  Cruta?" 

"I  left  it  a  month  after  you  did." 

"But  your  vows, — were  they  not  for  life?"  Paul 
asked. 

Father  Adrian  smiled  scornfully.  "  I  was  not  bound 
to  Cruta,"  he  answered.  "  There  had  been  complaints, 
and  I  was  there  to  investigate  them.  The  monastery 
was  poverty  and  disease-stricken.  It  is  closed  now 
forever." 

"  Then  you  are  no  monk?  " 

Father  Adrian  shook  his  head.  "  I  am,  and  I  am 
not.  In  my  youth  I  served  my  novitiate,  but  I  never 


76  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

took  the  oaths.  The  cloisters  are  for  holier  men  than  I." 

"  Then  who  are  you?" 

"  I  am — Father  Adrian,  priest  of  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic Church,  I  can  tell  you  no  more." 

The  moonlight  was  falling  full  upon  his  dark,  strik- 
ing face.  Paul,  with  bent  brows,  scanned  every  fea- 
ture of  it  intently.  Father  Adrian  bore  the  scrutiny 
without  flinching  and  without  discomposure.  Only 
once  the  colour  mounted  a  little  into  his  cheeks  as  the 
eyes  of  the  two  men  met. 

"  What  brings  you  to  Vaux  Abbey,  Father  Adrian? " 
Paul  asked  at  length. 

"  To  see  your  home,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?  It  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  curiosity  which  has  brought  you  all 
this  way.  What  is  it?" 

Father  Adrian  was  silent.  Yet  his  silence  was  not 
one  of  confusion.  He  was  looking  down  through  the 
gaps  in  the  ruined  chapel  walls  at  the  dark  Gothic 
front  of  the  old  Abbey.  Paul  waited  for  an  answer, 
and  it  came  at  last. 

"  I  wished  to  see  the  home  of  Martin  de  Vaux,  the 
Englishman  who  died  in  my  arms  at  the  monastery  of 
Cruta.  For  six  nights  I  have  prayed  for  his  soul  in 
Purgatory,  amongst  the  ruins  here.  He  died  in  griev- 
ous sin  ! " 


"WHO  ARE  YOU,  AND  WHAT  YOUR  MISSION?"    7? 

"Have  you  come  to  remind  me  of  it?"  Paul 
asked  bitterly.  "  Perhaps  you  have  repented  of  your 
silence,  and  have  come  to  break  the  widow's  heart  by 
telling  her  the  story  of  his  last  moments.  Perhaps — 
perhaps  in  those  dark  hours  he  told  you  his  secret — 
told  you  why  he  had  come  to  Cruta  1" 

"He  did,"  said  the  priest  gravely. 

"My  God  !" 

It  was  a  great  shock  to  Paul.  Hitherto  he  had 
feared  only  one  thing  :  that  the  story  of  his  father's 
tragical  death  might  come  to  light,  and  break  his 
mother's  heart.  Now  there  was  more  to  fear, — far 
more.  He  looked  into  Father  Adrian's  face  with  a 
new  and  keener  interest.  He  recognised  at  once  that 
everything  dear  to  him  in  life  might  be  at  this  man's 
mercy.  / 

"You  were  intrusted  with  this  secret  by  a  dying 
man,"  Paul  said,  with  a  little  hoarseness  in  his  tone. 
"It  is  to  you  as  the  secrets  of  the  confessional !" 

The  priest  shook  his  head  gently.  "  He  refused  to 
confess.  He  told  me  distinctly  that  it  was  as  man  to 
man  he  spoke  to  me." 

Paul  looked  away  into  the  night  with  white,  stricken 
face,  and  cursed  his  father's  weakness.  Supposing 
that  this  priest  had  discovered  that  his  conscience 
would  not  allow  him  to  keep  the  secret !  What  more 


78  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

likely  !  Why  else  was  be  here, — why  else  did  he  dis- 
claim the  confessional?  There  was  only  one  other 
alternative  !  Perhaps  he  desired  to  trade  upon  his 
secret  Yet  how  was  that  possible?  Of  what  use 
could  money  be  to  him  ?  What  could  he  gain  by  it  ? 
Besides,  his  was  not  the  face  of  an  adventurer. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  Paul  said  at  last.  "  Once 
more  let  me  ask  you,  Father  Adrian,  why  are  you 
here?" 

Father  Adrian  looked  thoughtfully  away.  "You  ask 
more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  he  said  gravely.  "The  time 
has  not  yet  come.  We  shall  meet  again.  Farewell ! " 

The  priest  turned  away,  but  Paul  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"If  there  is  anything  which  you  ought  or  mean  to 
tell  me,  tell  me  now,"  he  demanded  hoarsely.  "I  can 
bear  everything  but  suspense.  I  know  only — that 
there  was  a  secrei  No  more.  Proceed !  Tell  me 
more!" 

The  priest  shook  his  robe  free  from  Paul's  restrain- 
ing hand,  and  turned  away. 

"Not  yet!  Not  yet!  My  mind  is  not  yet  clear.  We 
shall  meet  again.  Farewell!" 

"But " 

"Farewell!" 


"WSO  ARE  fOU,  AND  WHAT  TOUR  MISSION?"    79 

The  priest  had  passed  from  the  ruins,  and  was 
already  out  of  sight  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

"Come  back,  Father  Adrian!     One  word  more! " 

"Farewell!" 

The  priest  did  not  turn  his  head.  Paul  was  left 
alone,  gazing  after  him  with  stern,  troubled  face  and 
anxious  heart.  It  was  a  danger  which  he  had  always 
foreseen,  always  dreaded.  Henceforth  he  must  live 
like  a  man  who  paces,  day  by  day,  the  brink  of  a 
volcano.  At  any  moment  the  blow  might  fali 


A  MONK  OF  CHUT  A 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"I  AM  WEARY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE" 

PAUL  and  Arthur  shared  a  bachelor  residence  in 
Mayfair;  shared  it,  that  is  to  say,  insomuch  as  Paul 
had  purchased  it,  and  was  the  sole  proprietor,  and 
Arthur  used  it  whenever  he  could  get  leave  from  his 
regiment.  It  was  here  Paul  found  his  brother  on  the 
morning  of  his  arrival  in  London. 

They  shook  hands  in  silence;  Paul  did  not  wish  to 
say  anything  for  a  moment.  His  brother's  appearance 
had  choked  him.  It  was  one  o'clock,  but  he  was  still 
in  his  dressing-gown;  with  sunken,  pale  cheeks,  save 
for  one  bright  spot,  and  with  faint,  dark  rims  under- 
neath his  eyes.  There  were  a  pile  of  blue  papers  and 
some  ominous-looking  envelopes  on  the  table  before 
him,  and  Paul  could  not  help  noticing  the  intense 
pallor  of  the  hand  which  rested  upon  them. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  a  fellow  know  what  time  you 
were  coming,"  Arthur  said,  rather  peevishly,  but  with 
an  attempt  at  a  smile.  "  I  didn't  expect  you  till  even- 
ing, so  I  was  having  a  shack  before  dressing.  I  was 
lute  last  night!" 


"/  AM  WEARY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE"  81 

Paul  banished  his  gravity,  as  far  as  possible,  and 
itood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  leaning  against 
the  mantel-piece.  He  heartily  disliked  the  part  of 
mentor,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  play  it,  unless  he  were 
obliged. 

"It  was  beastly  early  to  get  up,"  he  said,  "but  the 
connection  at  Normanton  is  so  much  better.  One  has 
to  wait  two  hours  by  the  late  train,  and  Normanton  is 
such  a  hole.  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  come  up 
to  town  at  all,  just  yet,"  he  continued  after  a  slight 
pause,  "only  that  I'm  on  the  committee  at  the  club 
this  term,  you  know,  and  I  haven't  attended  a  single 
meeting  yet.  Besides,  I  promised  Westover  to  put  him 
up  this  time,  and  the  half-yearly  meeting's  to-morrow, 
you  know.  Got  any  engagement?  If  not,  you  might 
dine  with  me  there.  Always  a  full  night  election  time, 
you  know!" 

"Beastly  sorry!  but  my  leave's  up  to  night,"  Arthur 
answered  ruefully.  "I  shall  have  to  go  down  to 
Aldershot  by  the  four  o'clock  train,  and  do  a  week's 
close  grind." 

Paul  nodded.  "I'm  sorry;  I'd  have  liked  you  to 
run  down  home  with  me  for  a  few  days,  and  see  the 
mater.  The  Westovers  have  some  very  nice  people 
coming  to  the  Castle,  and  are  going  to  get  up  some 
theatricals.  Lady  May  says  they  must  have  you!  Will 
you  come  in  a  week,  if  I  work  the  Colonel  ?  " 


i  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  I'm  afraid  1  can't,"  Arthur  answered,  with  a  slight 
flush  in  his  cheeks.  "  I  have  some  engagements  for 
next  week,  and — and — I'm  sure  I  can't  manage  it." 

"  The  mater'll  be  disappointed,"  Paul  said  quietly. 
"  She  is  counting  on  seeing  you,  and  it's  some  time 
since  you  were  down,  isn't  it?  Tell  you  what,  old  man! 
I'd  try  and  manage  it,  if  I  were  you!  " 

"I can't  promise!  I  will,  if  I  can  manage  it!  I'll 
write  you  from  Aldershot !  " 

"  You  don't  look  quite  the  thing,"  Paul  said  kindly. 
"  Nothing  the  matter,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  Arthur  assured  him  hastily.  "  I'm 
quite  well.  A  bit  of  a  head,  that's  all." 

" Not  too  many  of  those  bits  of  paper  about,  eh?" 
Paul  asked,  pointing  to  an  oblong  strip  of  blue  paper 
which  lay,  face  uppermost,  on  the  table. 

Arthur  coloured,  and  threw  a  book  over  it 

"I  am  sorry  I  saw  it,"  Paul  went  on;"  but  it  was 
there  to  be  seen,  wasn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes!  that's  all  right!  I  oughtn't  to  have  left 
it  about,  that's  all.  I'm  not  exactly  a  Croesus,  like  you, 
you  know,  Paul,  and  now  and  then  I'm  obliged  to  raise 
the  wind  somehow.  Yes!  I  know  what  you're  going 
to  say.  My  allowance  is  a  good  one,  and  I  ought  to 
make  it  do.  But,  you  see,  sometimes  I  can't." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  asking,  Arthur,  bat  is 
that  an  acceptance  of  your  own?  " 


"/  AM  WEARY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE"  83 

Arthur  nodded.  "  There  are  a  few  accounts  which 
I  must  pay,"  he  said.  "  So  I'm  going  to  ask  Plimsoll 
to  do  it  for  me.  He's  a  decent  fellow  of  his  sort,  you 
know!  Lots  of  fellows  go  to  him!" 

Paul  stretched  out  his  hand.  "  Give  it  to  me,"  he 
said,  " and  I  will  discount  it  for  you.  Thanks!" 

Paul  took  it,  and,  just  glancing  at  the  amount,  threw 
it  into  the  fire.  "  I  haven't  my  cheque  book  here,"  he 
said,  "  but  we  will  call  at  the  bank  on  our  way  to 
the  club,  and  I  can  get  the  money.  I'm  glad  I  saw 
it!" 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  Arthur  said  hesitatingly. 
"I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  asking  you.  I  must 
owe  you  an  awful  lot  already." 

"Never  mind  what  you  owe  me!  I'll  write  it  all 
off,  Arthur,  and  this  last  amount  too,  if  you'll  do  me  a 
favour.  Come  down  home  with  me  next  week,  as  soon 
as  you  can  get  leave." 

Arthur  rose  to  his  feet,  and  then,  leaning  against 
the  mantel-board,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  "  I 
can't  leave  London,  Paul! — or,  if  I  did,  it  could  only 
be  for  a  day,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  wish  I  could 
tell  you  why,  but  I  can't;  you  wouldn't  understand!" 

"I  think  I  know,"  Paul  said  quietly.  "  There  is 
some  one  whom  you  do  not  care  to  leave!  Is  that  not 
it?" 


84  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Arthur  looked  up  quickly.  His  face  was  very  white, 
and  his  lip  was  quivering. 

"  Who  told  you  that?     What  do  you  know?" 

•'  I  know  nothing !  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  Perhaps 
I  could  help  you.  There  is  a — lady  in  the  case,  isn't 
there?" 

Arthur  stood  up  on  the  hearthrug,  and  spoke,  with 
a  subdued  passion  trembling  in  his  tone. 

"Yes!  it's  Adrea  Kiros,  the  dancer!  I  daresay 
you've  heard  all  about  it !  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't! 
I  can't  leave  her!  I  know  all  that  you  would  say!  It 
doesn't  make  any  difference.  She  isn't  good!  Well! 
I  know  it!  She  doesn't  care  for  me!  I  don't  believe 
she  does.  She's  as  cruel  as  a  woman  can  be.  Some- 
times, when  I  am  away  from  her,  the  thought  of  going 
back  makes  me  shudder;  and  yet,  I  could  no  more 
keep  away  than  lift  the  roof  from  this  house.  Of 
course,  this  sounds  like  rigmarole  to  you.  You  think 
I'm  raving!  I  don't  blame  you.  Only  it  is  so,  and  I 
can't  help  it!  I  am  as  much  a  prisoner  as  any  poor 
devil  in  Newgate." 

Paul  laid  his  hand  upon  his  brother's  shoulder,  and 
looked  kindly  into  his  face.  "  Arthur,  I'm  very  sorry! 
And  don't  think  I  don't  understand!  I  do!  I  do  not 
know  much  of  A —  of  Adrea  Kiros,  but  I  know  enough 
to  tell  me  that  she  is  a  very  dangerous  woman.  Can't 
I  help  you,  somehow?" 


"/  AM  WE  ART  OF  A  HOPELESS  LO  VE"  85 

"  I — I  don't  think  you  can !  I  don't  think  any  one 
,"  Arthur  exclaimed  unsteadily.  He  had  been  pre- 
pared for  a  lecture,  for  good  advice,  for  a  little  con- 
tempt even ;  but  his  brother's  attitude  was  unexpected, 
and  it  almost  unnerved  him.  "  It  is  the  uncertainty  of 
it  all  that  is  so  tormenting,"  he  went  on.  "  Sometimes 
she  is  so  kind,  and  sweet,  and  thoughtful,  that  I  could 
almost  worship  her.  And  then,  without  any  cause,  she 
will  suddenly  become  cold,  and  hard,  and  cruel,  till  I 
hate  myself  for  bearing  quietly  all  that  she  says.  But 
I  do!  I  can't  help  it!  I  am  never  quite  happy  even 
when  she  is  in  one  of  her  sweetest  moods,  for  I  never 
know  how  long  it  will  last.  The  moment  I  leave  her 
I  begin  to  get  anxious,  and  wonder  how  she  will  be  the 
next  day." 

"Try  what  a  change  will  do,  Arthur!"  his  brother 


Arthur  shook  his  head.  "It's  no  use;  I've  tried! 
If  I  went  away  I  should  only  be  miserable,  and  hurry 
back  by  the  first  train.  Oh,  if  only  I  could  make  you 
understand  1 "  he  cried,  with  a  little  passionate  ges- 
ture, which  gained  pathos  and  almost  dignity  from  the 
expression  on  his  white,  sorrowing  face.  "  Adrea  is 
as  necessary  to  me  as  the  air  we  breathe!  The  sun 
has  no  light,  and  the  day  no  ending,  till  I  have  seen 
her!  She  is  the  measure  of  all  things  to  me:  joy, 


86  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

grief,  happiness,  misery,  it  is  her  hand  that  deals  them 
out  to  me!  She  can  play  upon  the  chords  of  my  beiug 
as  she  chooses.  A  look  or  word  from  her  can  pull  me 
down  into  hell,  or  transport  me  into  a  seventh  heaven ! 
Who  gave  her  this  power,  I  cannot  tell!  But  she  has 
it!  she  has  it!" 

Paul  said  no  more.  Perhaps  he  recognised  that,  for 
the  present  at  any  rate,  it  was  useless.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  in  sympathetic 
silence.  When  he  spoke  again  he  made  no  reference 
to  the  subject,  but  Arthur  understood.  "Get  your 
things  on,  and  come  out  to  lunch  with  me,"  he  said 
pleasantly.  "  I  am  too  hungry  to  be  sympathetic,  and 
we  can  call  at  Coutts'  on  the  way." 

Arthur  nodded  and  disappeared.  Paul  took  his 
chair  for  a  while,  and,  as  he  sat  there  gazing  into  the 
fire,  his  face  grew  grey  and  haggard.  Was  Adrea 
Kiros  seeking  vengeance  on  the  son  of  her  father's 
murderer?  he  wondered.  If  so,  it  seemed  as  though 
she  were  indeed  succeeding.  How  could  he  save 
Arthur?  and  what  would  happen  if  those  rumours 
should  reach  his  mother's  ears,  as  some  day  they  cer- 
tainly would?  At  any  rate,  he  would  see  Adrea  him- 
self before  he  left  London.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
that,  if  Arthur  refused  to  listen  to  him,  that  should  Is 
his  course. 


"I  AM  WEARY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE"  87 

Things  somehow  seemed  brighter  when  they  walked 
down  to  the  club  together.  Dress  makes  so  much  dif- 
ference to  a  man,  and  Arthur,  spruce  and  debonair, 
with  a  gardenia  in  his  button-hole,  and  every  part  of 
his  attire  almost  "faultily  faultless,"  according  to  tho 
canons  of  London  fashion,  presented  a  very  different 
appearance  to  the  tragical-looking  personage  of  half  an 
hour  ago.  There  was  a  slight  air  of  subdued  fever- 
ishness  about  him,  though,  not  altogether  healthy,  and 
the  dark  rims  had  not  quite  vanished  from  underneath 
his  eyes. 

"Paul,  I  wonder  whether  you  will  do  something  for 
me?"  he  asked,  as  they  were  crossing  Pickadilly.  "I 
hate  asking  you! " 

" I'll  try,"  Paul  answered.     "  What  is  it?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you'll  like  it,  but — the  fact  is,  Adrea 
wants  you  to  go  and  see  her.  I  promised  that  I 
would  do  my  best  to  get  you  to  call  with  me  this  after- 
noon. If  you  don't  mind,  I  wish  you  would,"  he 
added  wistfully. 

"I  will  go  with  you  certainly,  if  you  wish  it,  "  Pan) 
answered,  not  too  cordially,  for  he  did  not  wish  his 
brother  to  know  that  it  was  what  he  had  already 
planned  to  do.  "  Did  she  tell  you  that  we  had  al- 
ready a  slight  acquaintance?  " 

"  Yes  !   You  rode  home  in  a  cab  together  from  Lady 


88  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Swindon's,  didn't  you?  There  was  only  one,  and  it 
was  raining,  so  you  shared  it.  Adrea  told  me  that. " 

Paul  nodded.  He  meant,  after  he  had  seen  Adrea, 
to  consider  whether  it  would  not  be  best  to  tell  his 
brother  everything.  But,  for  the  present,  her  story 
was  enough.  They  turned  into  Pall  Mall,  and,  almost 
immediately,  Arthur's  hat  was  in  his  hand,  and  he  was 
on  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  colouring  with  pleasure. 
A  small  victoria  had  pulled  up  by  the  side,  and  Paul 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  Adrea. 

She  was  muffled  up  in  rich  brown  furs,  and  almost 
invisible,  but  her  dark  eyes  flashed  into  his  from  un- 
derneath her  thick  veil.  After  the  first  greeting  she 
scarcely  noticed  Arthur;  it  was  Paul  upon  whom  her 
eyes  were  bent. 

"You  are  in  London  again,  then,  Mr.  de  Vaux,"  she 
remarked.  "  Have  you  discovered  that,  after  all,  the 
country  is  a  little  trisie  in  this  laud  of  damp  and  fogs 
— the  country  in  November,  I  mean — or  is  it  only  im- 
portant business  which  has  brought  you  up!  " 

"  The  latter,"  he  answered,  "  as  it  happens.  I  am 
glad  to  see  that  the  damp  and  fogs  which  you  complain 
of  have  not  affected  your  health." 

"  I  am  quite  well,  thanks,"  she  answered.  "  How 
long  are  you  staying  in  town  ?  " 

"  For  less  than  a  week,  I  think." 


"I  AM  WEARY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE  "  89 

"  Well,  it  is  too  cold  to  talk  here.  Will  you  come 
and  let  me  give  you  some  tea  this  afternoon,  after  the 
fashion  of  you  strange  islanders?  I  want  you  to, 
please." 

Paul  looked  her  straight  in  the  face.  "  You  are  very 
kind;  I  shall  be  glad  to,"  he  answered. 

She  nodded.  "  About  five  o'clock.  I  go  to  sleep 
till  then.  Shall  you  come,  Arthur?"  she  added  care- 
lessly. 

"I  cannot,  so  late  as  that,"  he  answered  despond- 
ently. 

"  Ah,  I  forgot.  You  are  going  down  to  Aldershot, 
aren't  you?  Don't  overwork  yourself." 

She  nodded,  and  the  carriage  drove  on.  Arthur 
watched  it  until  it  was  out  of  sight.  "She  might  have 
said  a  little  earlier,"  he  remarked  despondently.  "  She 
knew  I  couldn't  come  so  late  as  that." 

Paul  passed  his  arm  through  his  brother's  and  was 
silent.  He  knew  very  well  that  Adrea  had  thought  of 
this  when  she  had  made  the  arrangement. 

They  lunched  together,  and  Paul  did  his  utmost  to 
make  the  time  pass  pleasantly  for  his  brother.  When 
they  parted,  too,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  referred  once 
more  to  Mrs.  de  Yaux's  desire  that  he  should  come 
down  to  the  Abbey  for  a  few  days. 

*'  I  want  you  to  think  of  it  seriously,  Arthur,"  he 


90  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

said,  as  they  shook  hands  through  the  carriage  win- 
dow. "  The  mother  is  very  anxious  to  have  you,  and 
I  am  sure  we  can  make  things  pleasant  for  you.  I 
shall  speak  to  Drurnmond  about  leave  if  I  see  him  to- 
morrow. " 

Arthur  assented  dubiously,  and  without  any  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  Awfully  good  of  you  to  want  me,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
daresay  I'll  be  able  to  come.  I'll  try,  anyhow — just 
for  a  day  or  two." 

The  train  steamed  off,  and  Paul  walked  slowly  back 
to  his  carriage. 

"  Where  to,  sir?  "  the  man  asked. 

Paul  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  he  gave  Adrea's 
address,  and  was  driven  away. 


"AH!  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"    91 


CHAPTER  IX 

"AH!    HOW    FAIR   MY    WEAKNESS   FINDS   THEE" 

PAUL  found  no  one  in  the  hall  of  the  house  where 
Adrea  lived  to  take  him  to  her,  so  after  waiting  a  few 
minutes  for  her  maid,  whom  the  porter  had  twice 
fruitlessly  summoned,  he  ascended  the  stairs  alone, 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  rooms. 

At  first  there  was  no  reply.  He  tried  again  a  little 
louder,  and  this  time  there  was  a  sound  of  some  one 
stirring  within. 

"  Come  in,  Celeste,"  was  the  drowsy  answer. 

He  turned  the  handle  and  walked  in,  carefully  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  him.  At  first  the  room  appeared 
to  be  in  semi-darkness,  for  a  clear  spring  day's  sun- 
shine was  brightening  the  streets  which  he  had  just 
left,  and  here  the  heavy  curtains  were  closely  drawn, 
as  though  to  keep  out  every  vestige  of  daylight.  But 
gradually  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  shaded  twi- 
light and  he  could  make  out  the  familiar  objects  of 
the  room ;  for  although  it  was  only  his  second  visit, 
they  were  familiar  already  in  his  thoughts. 


99  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Strangely  enough  it  seemed  to  him,  after  his  first 
hasty  glance  around,  that  the  room  was  empty;  but 
just  then  a  sudden  gleam  from  the  bright  fire  fell 
upon  Adrea's  hair,  and  he  saw  her.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  silent  and  motionless.  She  was  curled  up  on 
a  huge  divan  drawn  close  to  the  fireplace,  with  her 
limbs  doubled  under  her  like  a  panther's,  and  her 
arms,  from  which  the  loose  sleeves  had  fallen  back, 
clasped  half-bare  underneath  her  head.  The  peculiar 
grace  of  movement  and  carriage,  which  had  made  her 
dancing  so  famous,  was  even  more  striking  in  repose, 
for  there  was  a  faint,  insidious  suggestion  of  volupt- 
uous movement  in  those  motionless,  crouching  limbs, 
and  the  abandon  of  the  shapely,  dusky  head,  with  its 
crown  of  dark,  wavy  hair  thrown  back  amongst  the 
cushions.  It  was  beauty  of  a  strange  sort,  the  beauty 
almost  of  some  wild  animal ;  but  Paul  felt  a  most  un- 
willing admiration  steal  through  his  senses  as  he  gazed 
down  upon  her.  Her  tea-gown,  a  wonderful  shade  of 
shimmering  green,  tumbled  and  disarranged  out  of  all 
similitude  to  its  original  shape,  followed  the  soft  per- 
fections of  her  outline  with  such  peculiar  faithfulness 
that  it  seemed  to  suggest  even  more  than  it  concealed, 
leaving  the  gentle  tracery  of  her  figure  outlined  there 
like  a  piece  of  living  Greek  statuary.  She  turned 
slightly  upon  the  couch,  and  a  slipperless  little  foot 


"AH!  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"    93 

stole  out  from  a  sea  of  lace  and  white  draperies  which 
her  uneasy  movement  had  left  exposed,  and  swayed 
slowly  backwards  and  forwards,  trying  to  reach  the 
ground.  Her  eyes  were  still  closed,  but  she  was  not 
sleeping,  for  in  a  moment  or  two  she  spoke  in  a  low, 
drowsy  tone. 

"  Celeste,  I  told  you  not  to  disturb  me  for  an  hour. 
It  isn't  five  o'clock  yet,  is  it?" 

He  roused  himself,  and  moved  a  step  further  into 
the  room.  "It  is  still  a  quarter  to  five,  I  think,"  he 
said.  "I  have  come  before  my  time." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  then,  seeing  him,  sprang 
into  a  sitting  posture.  Her  hair,  which  had  escaped 
all  bounds,  was  down  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  gown, 
still  further  disarranged  by  her  hasty  movement, 
floated  around  her  in  wonderful  curves  and  angles. 
Had  she  been  a  past  mistress  in  the  art  of  picturesque 
effects  she  could  have  conceived  nothing  more  strik- 
ing. Paul  felt  all  the  old  fear  upon  him  as  he 
watched  the  firelight  gleaming  upon  her  startled, 
dusky  face,  and  the  faint  pink  colouring,  wonderfully 
suggestive  of  a  blush,  steal  into  her  cheeks.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she  was  as  beautiful  as  a  woman  could  be, 
and  yet  so  different  from  Lady  May. 

She  rose,  and,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a 
quick,  graceful  movement,  shook  out  her  skirts,  and 


94  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

pushed  the  hair  back  from  her  face.  Then  she  held 
out  her  hand,  and  Paul  found  himself  compelled, 
against  his  will,  to  stand  by  her  side. 

"  How  strange  that  I  should  have  overslept  like  this, 
and  have  taken  you  for  Celeste!"  she  said.  "Yet 
perhaps  it  was  natural;  for,  Monsieur  Paul,  save 
Celeste,  no  one  yet  has  permission  to  enter  my  chamber 
unannounced.  How  comes  it  that  I  find  you  here  to 
laugh  at  my  deshabille?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  while  she  looked  at  him 
questioningly.  Her  soft,  delicate  voice,  with  its  very 
slight  but  "  piquant  foreign  intonation,  had  often 
sounded  in  his  reluctant  yet  charmed  ears  since  their 
last  meeting;  but  now  that  ho  heard  it  again  he  felt 
how  weak  were  his  imaginings,  and  what  sweet  music 
it  indeed  was. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  answered;  and  the  constraint 
which  he  was  placing  upon  his  voice  made  it  sound 
hard  and  cold.  "  The  porter  rang  for  your  maid  twice 
whilst  I  waited  in  the  hall;  but  as  she  did  not  come,  I 
thought  I  had  better  try  and  find  the  way  myself." 

"  And  I  mistook  your  knock  for  Celeste's,  and  let 
you  discover  me  comme  cela.  Well,  you  were  not  to 
blame.  See,  I  will  just  arrange  my  hair  here,  and  you 
need  not  look  at  me  unless  you  like." 

She  stood  up  in  front  of  a  mirror,  over  which  she 


"AH!  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"    95 

lighted  a  shaded  candle,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  her 
white  hands  flashed  deftly  in  and  out  amongst  the  dark, 
silky  coils  of  disordered  hair.  Paul  sat  down,  and 
taking  up  a  magazine  which  he  found  lying  on  the 
divan,  tried  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  upon  its  con- 
tents. But  he  could  not.  Every  moment  he  found  his 
eyes  and  his  thoughts  straying  to  that  slim,  lithe  fig- 
ure, watching  the  play  of  her  arms  and  the  grace  of 
her  backward  pose.  When  she  looked  suddenly  round, 
on  the  completion  of  her  task,  their  eyes  met. 

"  Monsieur  Paul,  you  are  like  all  your  sex — curious," 
she  said  lightly.  "  Tell  me,  then,  do  you  admire  my 
coiffure  ?  " 

"Very  much,"  he  answered,  glancing  at  the  loose 
Grecian  knot  into  which  she  had  gathered  her  dis' 
ordered  hair,  and  confined  it  with  a  band  of  dull  gold. 
**  It  is  quite  oriental,  and  it  seems  to  suit  you.  Not 
that  I  am  any  judge  of  such  matters,"  he  added 
quickly. 

She  moved  away  with  a  little,  low  laugh,  and  lit  two 
or  three  more  of  the  shaded  candles  or  fairy  lamps 
which  were  placed  here  and  there  on  brackets  round 
the  room.  Then  she  rang  the  bell,  and  gave  some 
orders  to  the  maid. 

"  So  you  think  my  hair  looks  oriental,"  she  said, 
sinking  down  upon  a  huge  cushion  in  front  of  the  fire. 


96  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  That  is  what  the  papers  call  me  sometimes — oriental. 
My  early  associations  asserting  themselves,  you  see.  I 
think  I  remember  more  of  Constantinople  than  any 
place,"  she  went  on  dreamily,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  fire.  "I  was  only  a  child  in  those  days,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  then  that  nothing  could  be  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  City  of  Mosques  and  the  Golden  Horn  on 
a  clear  summer  evening.  Why  do  I  think  of  those 
days  ? "  she  added,  shaking  her  head  impatiently. 
"Such  folly  !  And  yet  I  always  think  of  them  when  I 
am  lonely." 

He  was  suddenly  and  deeply  moved  with  altogether 
a  new  feeling  towards  her — one  of  responsibility.  She 
was  alone  in  the  world,  and  it  was  his  father's  hand 
which  had  rendered  her  so.  How  empty  and  barren 
had  been  his  conception  of  the  burden  which  that  deed 
had  laid  upon  him!  Like  a  flash  he  seemed  to  see  the 
whole  situation  in  a  new  light.  If,  indeed,  she  had 
drifted  into  ruin,  the  sin  lay  at  his  door.  He  should 
have  found  her  a  mother  ;  it  should  have  been  his  care 
to  have  watched  her  continually,  and  to  have  assured 
himself  that  she  was  contented  and  happy.  In  those 
few  moments  the  whole  situation  seemed  to  change, 
and  he  even  felt  a  hot  flush  of  shame  at  his  own  cold- 
ness towards  her.  He  forgot  the  dancer,  the  woman  of 
strange  fascinations,  the  idol  of  the  jeunesse  dor£e  of 


"AH I  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"    97 

West  London  clubdom,  and  he  remembered  only  the 
fact  that  she  was  a  lonely  orphan  with  a  most  womanly 
light  in  her  soft,  dark  eyes,  and  that  he  had  failed  in 
his  duty  towards  her.  Paul  was  essentially  a  "  manly" 
man,  self-contained,  and  with  all  his  feelings  very 
much  at  his  control  ;  but  at  that  moment  he  felt  some- 
thing like  a  rush  of  tenderness  towards  this  strange, 
dark-e}red  girl  who  lay  coiled  up  at  his  feet.  Involun- 
tarily he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  laid  it,  with  an  al- 
most caressing  gesture,  upon  her  hair. 

She  started  around,  as  though  electrified,  and  look- 
ing up  saw  the  change  in  his  face.  It  was  the  first 
kindly  look  or  speech  she  had  had  from  him  since 
they  had  met  in  London,  and  it  had  come  so  suddenly 
that  it  seemed  to  have  a  strange  effect  upon  her.  A 
deep  flush  stole  into  her  face,  and  her  eyes  gleamed 
brilliantly.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  underneath 
her  loose  gown  he  could  see  her  bosom  rising  and  fall- 
ing quickly.  Yet  it  all  seemed  so  softened  and  womanly 
that  the  thoughts  which  he  had  once  had  of  her 
seemed  like  a  distant  nightmare  to  him.  The  ethical 
and  physical  horror  of  her  being — of  her  ever  becom- 
ing— what  he  feared,  rose  up  strong  within  him,  and 
deepened  at  once  his  sense  of  responsibility  towards 
her,  and  his  new-born  tenderness.  He  took  her  hand 
gently,  and  was  startled  to  find  how  cold  it  was. 


98  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"So  you  do  feel  lonely,  Adrea,  sometimes,"  he  said 
softly,  "  although,  you  have  so  many  acquaintances." 

The  colour  burned  deeper  for  a  moment  in  her 
cheeks.  She  looked  at  him  half  reproachfully,  half 
indignantly. 

"  Acquaintances  !  You  mean  the  people  who  come 
to  see  me  !  I  hate  them  all  !  Sometimes  they  amuse 
me  a  little,  but  that  is  all.  They  are  nothing  ! " 

"  And  you  have  no  women  friends  ?  " 

"  None  !  How  should  I  !  But  I  do  not  care.  I  do 
not  like  English- women  !  " 

"  But,  Adrea,  it  is  not  good  for  you, — this  isolation 
from  your  sex." 

At  the  sound  of  her  Christian  name,  coming  from  his 
lips  so  gently,  almost  affectionately,  she  looked  up 
quickly.  It  seemed  to  him  almost  as  though  some 
softening  change  had  crept  over  her.  Was  it  the  fire- 
light, he  wondered,  or  was  it  fancy? 

"Good  for  me!"  she  said  softly.  "Have  you 
just  thought  of  that,  Monsieur  Paul  ?  " 

Again  he  felt  that  pang  of  conscience  ;  and  yet,  was 
she  not  a  little  unjust  to  him  ? 

"You  took  yonr  life  into  your  own  hands,"  he 
reminded  her.  "You  chose  for  yourself." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  she  answered,  drawing  a  little  nearer 
to  him,  till  her  head  almost  rested  upon  his  knees.  "I 
do  not  blame  you." 


"AH!  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"    99 

"  It  would  have  been  so  easy  before  to  have  found  a 
home  for  you," he  went  on,  "and  now  you  have  made  it 
so  difficult." 

"  There  is  no  need,"  she  interrupted  proudly  ;  "  I 
could  keep  myself  now.  I  do  not  want  anything  from 

you,  Monsier  Paul, — save  one  thing  ! " 

• 

She  raised  her  face  to  his,  and  it  seemed  to  him  to 
be  all  aglow  with  a  wonderful,  new  light.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  soft  entreaty  of  those  strange,  da^-k 
eyes  so  close  to  his,  or  the  tremor  in  his  tones.  And 
then,  before  he  could  answer  her,  before  he  could  sum- 
mon up  resolution  enough  to  draw  away,  she  had  stolen 
softly  into  his  arms,  and,  with  a  little  murmur  o£  con- 
tent, had  rested  her  small,  dusky  head,  with  its  coronet 
of  dark,  braided  hair,  upon  his  shoulder,  and  twined 
her  hands  around  his  neck. 

"  Paul !  Monsieur  Paul  !  I  am  lonely  and  miserable. 
Love  me  just  a  little,  only  a  little  ! "  she  pleaded. 

It  was  the  supreme  moment  for  both  of  them.  To 
her,  coveting  this  love  with  all  the  passionate  fore*3  of 
her  fiery  oriental  nature,  time  seemed  to  stand  still 
while  she  rested  passively  in  his  arms,  neither  alto- 
gether accepted  nor  altogether  repulsed.  And  to  him, 
as  he  sat  there  pale  and  shaken,  fighting  fiercely  against 
this  great  temptation  which  threatened  his  self- 
respect,  his  liberty  of  body  and  soul,  life  seemed  to 


100  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

have  turned  into  a  grim  farce,  full  of  grotesque  lights 
and  shadows,  mocking  and  gibing  at  all  which  had 
seemed  to  him  sweet  and  pure  and  strong.  Her  warm 
breath  fell  upon  his  cheek,  and  her  eyes  maddened 
him.  A  curiously  faint  perfume  from  her  clothes 
floated  upon  the  air,  and  oppressed  him  with  its  pecul- 
iar richness.  He  was  a  strong  man  but  at  that 
moment  he  faltered.  It  seemed  as  though  some  unseen 
hand  were  weaving  a  spell  upon  him,  as  though  his 
whole  environment  was  being  drawn  in  around  him, 
and  he  himself  were  powerless.-  Yet,  even  in  that 
moment  of  intoxication,  his  reason  did  not  altogether 
desert  him.  He  knew  that  if  he  opened  his  arms  to 
receive  that  clinging  figure,  and  drew  the  delicate, 
tear-stained  face,  full  of  mute  invitation,  down  to  his, 
to  be  covered  with  passionate  kisses, — he  knew  that  at 
that  moment  he  would  sign  the  death-warrant  to  all 
that  had  seemed  fair  and  sweet  and  comely  in  his  life. 
Forever  he  must  live  without  self-respect,  a  dishonoured 
man  in  his  own  eyes,  perhaps  some  day  in  hers, — for  he 
had  no  more  faith  in  her  love  than  in  his. 

He  held  her  hands  tightly  in  his, — he  had  unwound 
them  gently  from  his  neck, — and  stood  up  face  to  face 
with  her  upon  the  hearthrug.  The  soft  fire-light  threw 
up  strange,  ruddy  gleams,  which  glowed  around  her 
r.iif!  shown  in  her  dark  eyes,  fixed  so  earnestly  and  so 
passionately  upon  his. 


"AH!  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"  101 

"  Adrea,"  he  said,  and  his  low,  hoarse  tone  sounded 
harsh  and  unfamiliar  to  his  ears,  "you  do  not  know " 

She  interrupted  him,  she  threw  her  arms  again 
around  his  neck,  and  her  upturned  face  almost  met  his. 

"  I  do  know  !  I  do  know  !  I  understand — every- 
thing !  Only  I — cannot  live  without  you,  Paul  !" 

Her  head  sank  upon  his  shoulder;  he  could  not 
thrust  her  away.  Very  gently  he  passed  his  arms 
around  her,  and  drew  her  to  him.  He  knew  that  he 
could  trust  himself.  For  him  the  battle  was  over. 
Even  as  she  had  crept  into  his  arms,  there  had  come  to 
him  a  flash  of  memory — a  sudden,  swift  vision.  The 
walls  of  the  dimly  lit,  dainty  little  chamber,  with  all 
its  charm  of  faint  perfume,  soft  lights,  and  luxurious 
drapiugs,  had  opened  before  him,  and  he  looked  out 
upon  another  world.  A  bare  Northumbrian  moor, 
with  its  tumbled  masses  of  ^  grey  rock,  its  low-hanging, 
misty  clouds  and  silent  tarns,  stretched  away  before 
his  eyes.  A  strong,  fresh  breeze,  salt-smelling  and 
bracing,  cooled  his  hot  face.  The  roar  of  a  great  ocean 
thundered  in  his  ears,  and  an  angry  sunset  burned 
strange  colours  into  the  western  sky.  And  with  these 
actual  memories  came  a  healthier  tone  of  feeling — 
something,  indeed,  of  the  old  North-country  puritanism 
which  was  in  his  blood.  The  sea  spoke  to  him  of  the 
vastness  of  life,  and  dared  him  to  cast  his  away,  soiled 


102  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

and  tarnished,  for  the  sake  of  a  brief ,  passionate  delight. 
The  breeze,  nature's  very  voice,  whispered  to  him  to 
stand  true  to  himself,  and  taste  once  more  and  for  ever 
the  deep  joy  of  pure  and  perfect  communion  with  her. 
The  voices  of  his  past  life  spoke  to  him  in  one  long, 
sweet  chorus,  and  held  up  to  him  those  ideals  to  which 
he  had  been  ever  true.  And  blended  with  all  were 
memories,  faint  but  sweet,  of  a  fair  womanly  face,  into 
whose  clear  grey  eyes  he  could  never  dare  to  look  again 
if  he  yielded  now  to  this  fierce  temptation.  A  new 
strength  came  upon  him,  and  brought  with  it  a  great 
tenderness. 

"Adrea,  my  child,"  he  said  softly,  "you  make  me 
almost  forget  that  I  am  your  guardian  and  you  are 
my  ward.  Sit  down  here  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  led  her,  dumb  and  unresisting,  to  a  chair,  and 
stood  by  her  side. 

"Adrea " 

She  interrupted  him,  throwing  his  arms  roughly 
from  her  shoulder,  and  springing  to  her  feet. 

"  How  dare  you  touch  me  !  How  dare  you  stand 
there  and  mock  me  !  Oh  !  how  I  hate  you  !  hate 
you  !  hate  you  ! 

Her  voice  and  every  limb  trembled  with  passion,  and 
her  face  was  as  pale  as  death.  Before  her  anger  he 
bowed  his  head  and  was  silent.  Against  the  sombre 


"AH!  HOW  FAIR  MY  WEAKNESS  FINDS  THEE"  103 

background  of  dark  curt  airs,  her  slim  form  seemed  to 
gain  an  added  strength  and  dignity. 

"  You  have  iu  suited  me,  Paul  de  Vaux  !  Do  I 
not  owe  you  enough  already,  without  putting  this  to 
the  score  !  Dare  you  think  that  it  was  indeed  my 
love  I  offered  you — you  who  stood  by  and  saw  my 
father  murdered  that  you  might  be  spared  from  shame 
and  disgrace  !  Bah  !  Listen  to  me  and  go  !  You 
have  a  brother?  Good  !  I  shall  ruin  him,  shall  break 
his  heart;  and,  when  the  task  is  over,  I  shall  cast  him 
away  like  an  old  glove  !  Oh,  it  will  be  easy,  never 
fear  !  I  shall  do  it.  Arthur  is  no  cold  hypocrite,  like 
you.  He  is  my  sla^e.  And  when  I  have  ruined  him, 
have  set  my  foot  upon  aim,  it  will  be  your  turn,  Mon- 
sieur Paul  de  Vaux.  Listen  I  J  will  know  my  fath- 
er's secret  !  I  will  know  why  he  was  murdered  !  I 
will  discover  everything  !  Some  day  the  whole  world 
shall  know — from  me.  Now  go  !  Out  of  my  sight,  I 
say  !  Go  !  go  !  go  !  " 

With  bowed  head  and  face  as  white  as  death  Paul 
walked  out  of  the  room,  with  her  words  ringing  in  his 
ears  like  the  mocking  echoes  of  some  hideous  night- 
mare. 


104  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 


CHAPTEK   X 

"  I  AM  BUT  A  SLAVE,  AND  YET  I  BID  THEE  COME  " 

"  WERE  there  any  letters  for  me  this  morning, 
mother?"  Paul  asked. 

"  Only  one  for  you,  I  think,"  Mrs.  de  Vaux  answered 
from  across  the  tea-tray.  "  I  believe  you  will  find  it  in 
the  library.  Shall  I  send  for  it  ?  " 

Paul  shook  his  head.  "  It  will  keep,"  he  an- 
swered lightly.  "  I  can  get  it  on  my  way  upstairs. 
Have  we  anything  left  to  tell,  Lady  May?" 

"  I  think  not,"  Lady  May  replied,  from  the  depths 
of  an  easy  chair  drawn  up  to  the  fire.  "  Altogether  it 
has  been  a  glorious  day,  and  such  a  scent!  I  don't 
know  when  I  have  enjoyed  anything  so  much." 

"Nor  I!"  Paul  answered  heartily.  "The  going 
was  superb,  and  that  second  fox  took  us  over  a  grand 
stretch  of  country.  Really,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
walls  here  and  there,  we  might  have  been  in  Leicester- 
shire! Majr  I  have  some  more  tea,  mother?" 

Mrs.  de  Vaux  stretched  out  her  hand  for  his  cup,  and 


" I  AM  BUT  A  SLA  VE  "  105 

smiled  gently  at  their  enthusiasm.  She  had  been  a 
hunting  woman  all  her  life ;  and,  though  she  seldom 
even  drove  to  a  meet  now,  she  liked  to  have  her  son 
come  in  to  afternoon  tea  with  her,  and  talk  over  the 
run.  Of  late,  too,  he  had  seemed  so  pale  and  listless 
that  she  had  been  getting  a  little  anxious.  She  had  be- 
gun to  fear  that  he  must  be  out  of  health,  or  that  the 
monotony  of  Vaux  Abbey  was  wearying  him,  and  that 
he  would  be  leaving  her  again  soon.  But  to-day  she 
had  watched  him  ride  up  the  avenue,  with  Lady  May, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a  change  in 
his  bearing — a  change  for  the  better;  and,  looking  at 
him  now,  she  was  sure  of  it.  A  faint  glow  was  in  his 
cheeks,  and  his  eyes  were  brighter.  His  manner,  too, 
to  Lady  May  pleased  her  more.  He  had  ridden  home 
with  her ;  from  their  conversation,  they  seemed  to  have 
been  together  almost  all  day ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  a 
spirit  of  bon  comeradie  between  the  two,  as  they  talked 
over  their  doings,  which  certainly  pointed  to  a  good 
understanding.  Altogether  Mrs.  de  Vaux  was  pleased 
and  hopeful. 

And,  indeed,  she  had  reason  to  be,  for  his  long  day 
in  the  open  country  with  Lady  May  had  been  lika 
a  strong,  sweet  tonic  to  Paul.  For  the  first  time  since 
his  return  to  Vaux  Abbey  he  had  felt  that  a  time 
might  come  when  he  would  be  able  to  escape  altogether 


106  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

from  those  lingering,  bitter-sweet  memories  which 
were  all  that  remained  to  him  now  of  Adrea.  On  the 
bare,  windy  moor,  with  the  glow  of  physical  exercise 
and  excitement  coursing  through  his  veins,  and  Lady 
May's  pleasant  voice  in  his  ears,  that  little  scene  in  the 
rose-lit  chamber  seemed  for  a  moment  very  far  away. 
Adrea,  with  her  soft,  passion-lit  eyes,  and  dusky,  ori- 
ental face,  her  lithe,  voluptuous  figure  and  the  faint 
perfumes  of  her  rustling  draperies,  seemed  less  to  him 
then  than  a  short  while  ago  he  could  have  believed 
possible.  He  could  not  think  of  that  scene  without  a 
shudder, — it  had  left  its  mark  in  a  certain  way  for 
ever, — but  it  was  not  so  constantly  present  to  him.  He 
knew  that,  for  the  first  time,  a  woman  had  tempted  him 
sorely.  He  knew,  too,  and  he  alone,  how  nearly  he 
had  yielded.  His  sudden  passion,  her  strange  Eastern 
beauty,  and  the  fascination  which  it  had  exercised  over 
him,  together  with  the  soft  seusuousness  of  her  sur- 
roundings, had  formed  a  strong  coalition,  and  to-day 
he  recognised,  for  the  first  time,  how  much  he  owed 
his  victory  to  the  girl  who  was  riding  by  his  side. 
Even  in  those  breathless  moments  of  hesitation  he  had 
found  time  to  consider  that  if  he  yielded  to  Adrea's 
pleading,  he  could  never  again  take  Lady  May's  hand, 
or  meet  her  frank,  open  gaze.  The  pure  healthfulness 
of  life  which  had  been  so  dear  to  him  would  be  tainted 


"1  AM  BUT  A  SLA  VE "  107 

for  ever.  The  moorland  breezes  of  his  northern  home 
would  never  strike  the  same  chords  in  his  nature  again. 
All  these  recollections  had  flashed  across  his  mind  at 
that  critical  moment,  lending  strength  to  resist  and 
crush  his  passion.  And  to-day  he  had  commenced  to 
reap  his  reward.  To-day  he  had  tasted  once  more  the 
sweets  of  these  things,  and  found  how  dear  they  still 
were  to  him.  He  could  still  look  into  Lady  May's  fair, 
pure  face  unshamed,  and  find  all  the  old  pleasure 
in  listening  to  her  frank,  girlish  talk;  and  he  could 
still  bare  his  head  to  the  sweeping  winds,  and  lift  his 
face  to  the  sun  and  gaze  with  silent  admiration  at  the 
faint,  deepening  colours  in  the  western  sky,  as  Lady 
May  and  he  rode  homeward  across  the  moor  in  the  late 
afternoon.  All  these  joys  would  have  been  lost  to  him 
for  ever, — these  and  many  others.  Adrea  could  never 
have  repaid  him  for  their  loss. 

So  Paul,  who  had  come  home  from  London  pale  and 
silent,  with  the  marks  of  a  great  struggle  upon  him, 
lay  back  in  an  arm  chair  and  watched  the  firelight 
play  upon  Lady  May's  fair  face  with  more  than  a  pas- 
sive interest.  Mrs.  de  Vaux's  cherished  scheme  had 
never  been  so  near  its  accomplishment;  for  if  she 
could  have  read  Paul's  thoughts  she  would  have 
known  that  he  was  thinking  of  Lady  May  more  ten- 
derly than  he  had  ever  done  before.  Meeting  his 


108  A  MONK  OF  CHUT  A 

steadfast,  almost  wistful,  gaze,  she  became  almost  con- 
fused, and  suddenly  rising,  she  shook  out  the  skirts  of 
her  riding  habit,  and  took  up  her  hat  and  whip. 

"It  has  been  such  a  delightful  rest,"  she  said,  look- 
ing away  from  Paul  and  speaking  to  his  mother.  "  I 
shall  never  forget  how  good  that  tea  tasted!  But  I 
really  must  go,  Mrs.  de  Vaux!  My  poor  animal  is 
quite  done  up,  and  I  shall  have  to  walk  all  the  way 
home." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  did  right,"  Paul  said,  ris- 
ing, "  but  I  sent  your  groom  straight  on  home  with 
the  mare,  and  ordered  a  brougham  for  you.  She  has 
had  a  long  day,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  more  com- 
fortable for  you." 

She  flashed  a  grateful  glance  at  him.  "  How 
thoughtful  and  how  kind  you  are!  Of  course  it  will 
be  nicer!  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  selfish,  too, 
for  keeping  Betty  out  of  her  stable  so  long." 

"As  a  reward  we  will  keep  you  a  little  longer,"  he 
remarked.  "  It  is  only  six  o'clock!  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No  I  won't  stop,  thanks ! 
There  are  some  tiresome  people  coming  to  dine  to- 
night, and  I  must  go  home.  Good-bye,  Lady  de 
Vaux!" 

Paul  strolled  down  the  hall  with  her  and  handed 
her  into  the  carriage.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 


"I  AM  BUT  A  SLA  VE "  109 

held  her  hand  a  little  tighter  and  a  little  longer  than 
was  necessary. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  afternoon,  Lady 
May  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  her 
eyes  drooped,  and  her  lieart  beat  a  little  faster.  She 
understood  him. 

"Yes!  "  she  answered  softly. 

"  I  shall  ride  over  then!     Good-bye!  " 

"Good-bye!  " 

He  lingered  ori  the  doorstep  for  a  minute,  watching 
the  carriage  roll  down  the  avenue.  When  it  had 
disappeared,  he  turned  back  into  the  hall,  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  entered  the  library. 

It  was  a  large,  sombre-looking  apartment,  scarcely 
ever  entered  by  anyone  save  Paul.  The  bookcases 
reached  only  half-way  up  the  walls,  the  upper  por- 
tion of  which  was  hung  with  oil  portraits,  selected 
from  the  picture  gallery.  At  the  lower  end  of  the 
room  the  shelves  had  been  built  out  at  right  angles 
to  the  wall,  lined  with  books,  and  in  one  of  the  re- 
cesses so-formed — almost  as  large  as  an  ordinary- 
sized  chamber — Paul  had  his  writing-table  surrounded 
by  his  favourite  volumes.  It  was  a  delightful 
little  miniature  library.  Facing  him,  six  rows  of 
black  oak  shelves  held  a  fine  collection  of  classical 


110  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

literature;  on  his  left,  the  lower  shelves  contained 
rare  editions  of  the  early  English  dramatists,  and  the 
upper  ones  were  given  up  to  poetry,  from  Chaucer 
to  Swinburne.  The  right-hand  shelves  were  wholly 
Fiench,  from  quaint  volumes  of  troubadours'  poetry 
io  Alfred  de  Musset  and  De  Maupassant.  It  was  here 
Paul  spent  most  of  his  time  when  at  the  Abbey. 

The  meet  had  been  rather  a  long  way  off  that 
morning,  and  he  had  left  before  the  arrival  of  the 
post-bag  from  the  neighbouring  town.  Mrs.  de  Vaux 
had  distributed  the  letters,  and  the  one  she  had  spoken 
of  lay  at  the  edge  of  the  table.  He  stretched  out 
his  hand  to  take  it  up — without  any  presentiments, 
without  any  thought  as  to  whom  it  might  be  from. 
An  invitation,  doubtless,  or  a  begging  letter  he  im- 
agined, as  he  caught  sight  of  the  large  square  en- 
velope. But  suddenly,  before  his  fingers  had  closed 
upon  it,  he  started  and  stood  quite  still,  leaning  over 
the  back  of  his  chair.  His  heart  was  beating  fast, 
and  there  was  a  mist  before  his  eyes — a  mist  through 
which  he  saw,  as  though  in  a  dream,  the  walls  of 
his  library  melt  away,  to  be  replaced  by  the  dainty 
interior  of  that  little  room  in  Grey  Street,  with  all 
the  dim  luxury  of  its  soft  colouring  and  adornment. 
He  saw  her  too,  the  centre  of  the  picture — saw  her  as 
she  seemed  to  him  before  that  final  scene — saw  her 


"/  AM  BUT  A  SLA  VE"  111 

half -kneeling,  half-crouching,  before  him,  with  her 
beautiful  dark  eyes,  yearning  and  passionate,  fixed 
upon  his  in  mute,  but  wonderfully  eloquent,  plead- 
ing. Oh!  it  was  folly,  but  it  was  sweet,  marvellously 
sweet.  Every  nerve  seemed  thrilled  with  the  exquis- 
ite pleasure  of  the  memory  so  suddenly  called  up 
to  him,  and  his  lips  quivered  with  the  thought  of 
what  he  might  have  said  to  her.  The  strange,  volupt- 
uous perfume  which  crept  upwards  from  that  letter 
seemed  in  a  measure  to  have  paralysed  him.  He 
stood  there  like  a  man  entranced,  with  the  dim  fire- 
light on  one  side  and  the  low  horned  moon  through 
the  high  window  on  his  left,  casting  a  strange,  vivid 
light  on  his  pale  face — paler  even  than  usual  against 
the  scarlet  of  his  hunting-coat.  That  letter!  What 
could  it  contain  ?  Was  it  a  recall,  or  a  fresh  torrent 
of  anger?  He  stood  there  quite  still,  leaning  over 
the  back  of  the  high-backed  oak  chair  emblazoned 
with  the  De  Vaux  arms,  and  making  no  motion  to- 
wards taking  it  up. 

A  sound  from  outside — the  low  rumbling  of  a  gong 
— roused  him  at  last,  and  he  pushed  the  chair  hast- 
ily away  from  him.  His  first  impulse  was  one  of 
anger,  of  shame,  that  he,  a  strong  man,  as  he  had 
deemed  himself,  should  have  been  so  moved  by  a 
simple  flood  of  memories.  It  seemed  ignoble  to  him 


112  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

and  a  frown  gathered  on  his  forehead  as  he  reached 
forward  and  picked  up  the  letter.  Yet  his  fingers 
trembled  as  they  tore  it  open,  and  his  eyes  ran  over 
the  contents  rapidly. 

"  18  GKEY  STBEET,  LONDON,  W.,  Thursday. 

"  Monsieur  Paul,  my  hand  trembles  a  little  when  I  sit 
down  to  write  to  you,  and  think  of  our  last  parting.  But 
write  to  you  I  must!  I  am  very  humble  now,  and  very, 
very  much  ashamed!  Shall  I  go  on  and  say  that  I  am 
very  sad  and  lonely, — for  it  is  so!  I  am  miserable!  I 
I  have  been  miserable  every  moment  since  that  day! 
Forgive  me,  Monsieur  Paul,  forgive  me !  my  guardian. 
I  behaved  quite  dreadfully,  and  I  deserved  to  be  pun- 
ished. Believe  me!  I  am  punished.  I  have  had  scarcely 
any  sleep,  and  my  eyes  are  swollen  with  weeping.  I 
have  cancelled  all  my  engagements  this  week,  and  I 
have  closed  my  doors  to  everybody.  Oh!  be  generous, 
Monsieur  Paul!  be  generous  and  forgive  me!  I  have 
suffered  so  much, — it  is  right  that  I  should,  for  I  was 
much  to  blame.  Will  you  not  let  fall  some  kindly  veil 
of  memory  over  that  afternoon.  I  was  mad.  Let  what 
I  said  be  unsaid!  Let  me  be  again  just  what  you  called 
me, — your  ward.  I  ask  for  nothing  more!  Be  cold, 
if  you  will,  and  stern !  Scold  me !  and  I  will  but  say 
that  I  have  deserved  it!  Only  come  to  me!  Come  and 


"  1  AM  BUT  A  SLA  Vff"  113 

let  me  hear  your  own  lips  tell  me  that  I  am  forgiven. 
I  will  do  everything  that  you  ask!  I  will  not  see  Ar- 
thur if  he  calls, — you  shall  tell  me  yourself  how  to 
answer  his  letters, — I  have  a  little  pile  of  them  here. 
Monsieur  Paul,  you  must  come !  You  must  come,  or  I 
shall  be  driven  to — but  no!  I  will  not  threaten.  You 
would  not  care  whatever  happened  to  me,  would  you? 
I  am  very,  very  lonely.  I  wish  that  1  could  have  tele- 
graphed all  this,  and  had  you  here  to-night!  But  you 
would  not  have  come !  Yet,  perhaps  you  would,  out  of 
kindness  to  a  solitary  girl.  I  like  to  think  that  you 
would  have! 

"Monsieur  Paul,  you  have  been  good  to  the  'little 
brown  girl,'  as  you  used  to  call  her,  all  your  life !  Do 
not  forsake  her  now.  She  has  been  very  mad  and 
wicked,  but  she  is  very,  very  penitent.  Celeste  tells 
me  that  I  am  looking  thin  and  ill,  and  my  looking- 
glass  says  the  same.  It  is  because  I  am  unhappy; 
it  is  because  my  guardian  is  angry  with  me,  and  he  is 
so  far  away.  Oh !  Monsieur  Paul,  come,  come,  come 
to  me!  It  shall  be  all  as  you  wish!  I  will  obey  you  in 
everything.  Only  forgive! 

"  Yours, 

"ADBEA." 


114  A  MONK  OF  VRUTA 


ADREA'S   DIARY 

"A  figure  from  the  past  I  see  once  more  as  in  a  dream." 
THIS  evening  I  have  had  an  adventure !  I  am  thank- 
ful, for  it  has  occupied  my  thoughts  for  awhile;  and 
for  anything  that  does  that  I  am  grateful.  I  had  been 
in  the  house  all  day,  restless  and  nervous,  and  towards 
dusk  I  put  on  my  cloak  and  a  thick  veil,  and  went  out 
into  the  street.  I  scarcely  noticed  which  way  I  went. 
It  was  all  the  same  to  me.  A  dull  purple  bank  of 
clouds  hung  low  down  in  the  west,  and  the  air  was 
close  and  still.  By-and-by  I  heard  thunder,  and  big 
raindrops  fell  upon  the  pavement.  A  storm  was  threat- 
ening, and  I  longed  for  it  to  come  and  clear  the  air. 
I  must  have  been  walking  for  nearly  an  hour,  when 
it  came  at  last,  and  the  rain  fell  in  great  sheets.  I 
looked  around  for  a  cab,  but  there  was  none  in  sight. 
I  had  no  idea  where  I  was, — London  is  so  vast  and 
large, — and  though,  by  the  distant  roar  of  wheels,  I 
could  tell  that  I  was  not  far  from  a  great  thoroughfare, 
the  street  in  which  I  was  seemed  to  be  deserted.  Just 
by  my  side  was  a  dark  tunnel,  gloomy  and  vault-like 


ADREA'S  DIARY  115 

in  appearance;  but  in  that  downpour  any  refuge  was 
welcome,  and  I  stepped  back  underneath  it.  It  was 
like  going  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth;  and,  every 
now  and  then,  there  was  a  roar  over  my  head  which 
made  me  almost  dizzy.  But,  from  round  the  corner,  I 
could  see  that  it  was  only  the  sound  of  trains  passing 
and  repassing,  so  I  decided  to  stay  until  I  could  see  a 
cab. 

Opposite  to  me  was  a  man  with  a  truck-load  of 
oranges,  and  by  his  side  a  boy  seated  before  a  red-hot 
swinging  can,  containing  chestnuts.  There  was  no  one 
else  in  the  street,  although  at  the  bottom  of  it  crowds 
of  people  and  a  constant  stream  of  vehicles  were  hur- 
rying along.  On  the  other  side  of  the  way  was  a  tall 
and  grim-looking  building,  discoloured  with  smoke  and 
age.  It  was  evidently  a  hospital  or  institution  of  some 
sort.  The  windows  were  long  and  narrow,  and  one  or 
two  of  them,  I  could  see,  were  of  stained  glass.  There 
was  no  brass  plate  by  the  front  door,  nor  any  sign.  In 
the  absence  of  anything  else  to  do,  I  began  to  frame 
surmises  as  to  what  the  place  might  be.  The  spot- 
lessly white  doorsteps  and  polished  bell  interested  me ; 
they  seemed  out  of  tone  with  the  character  of  the  place 
and  its  surroundings,  so  utterly  bare  and  dreary.  I 
began  to  wish  that  a  caller  would  come  and  ring  the 
bell,  so  that  I  could  get  a  peep  at  the  interior.  But  no 


116  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

one  did,  although  I  noticed  that  more  than  one  hurry- 
ing  passer-by  glanced  up  at  it  curiously. 

The  thunder  died  away,  but  the  rain  still  came  down 
heavily.  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  curious  interest  in 
that  great  ugly  building  opposite,  I  should  have  risked 
a  wetting,  and  made  my  way  down  to  the  busy  thor- 
oughfare in  the  distance.  But  I  was  anxious  to  see 
some  one  enter  or  leave  the  place,  or  for  something  to 
happen  which  would  give  me  an  idea  as  to  its  charac- 
ter; so  I  waited.  Half  an  hour  passed,  and  my  curi- 
osity remained  unsatisfied.  There  was  no  sign  of  life 
about  the  place;  not  even  a  tradesman  had  called,  nor 
had  that  forbidding-looking  portal  once  been  opened. 
It  was  still  raining  fast,  but  there  were  signs  of  finer 
weather,  and  right  overhead  was  a  break  in  the  clouds. 
I  should  certainly  be  able  to  leave  now  in  a  few  min- 
utes; but,  strangely  enough,  all  my  impatience  seemed 
gone.  The  grim-looking  building  opposite  had  fasci- 
nated me.  I  had  no  desire  to  leave  the  place  until  I 
had  found  out  all  about  it. 

It  was  odd,  that  curiosity  of  mine;  all  my  days  I 
sball  wonder  at  it.  On  the  face  of  it,  it  seemed  so  un- 
reasonable, and  yet  it  led  to  so  much.  I  have  no  creed, 
and  I  know  nothing  about  philosophies,  or  perhaps  to- 
night's adventure  might  have  meant  even  more  to  me. 
But,  indeed,  it  seems  as  though  some  unseen  hand  led 


ADREA  8  DIARY  117 

jae  out  and  brought  me  into  that  deserted  street  From 
to-night  there  must  be  changes  in  my  life;  I  cannot 
escape  from  them.  As  yet  I  am  too  much  in  a  whirl 
to  ask  myself  whether  I  wish  to. 

To  return  to  that  house.  When  I  saw  that  the 
storm  was  clearing,  and  that  I  should  be  able  to  leave 
in  a  few  minutes,  T  determined  to  make  an  effort  to 
satisfy  my  curiosity.  I  crossed  the  road,  and  ad- 
dressed the  man  who  was  sitting  on  the  handles  of 
his  barrow  of  oranges. 

"Do  you  know  what  place  that  is  opposite?"  I 
asked,  pointing  across  the  road. 

He  took  out  a  filthy  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  spat 
upon  the  pavement.  I  think  that  he  must  have  noticed 
my  look  of  disgust,  for  he  answered  me  surlily,  "  No, 
I  don't!" 

I  turned  to  the  boy.     "  Do  you?"  I  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Not  for  certain,  maa'm.  I 
believe  it's  some  sort  of  a  Roman  Catholic  place, 
though.  Them  gents  in  long  clothes  and  shovel  hats 
is  allus  going  in  and  hout.  'Ullo,  Bill !  Here  she  be 
again  1  She's  a-trying  it  on,  ain't  she?" 

The  man  looked  up  and  grunted.  I  folloewd  the 
boy's  glance,  and  saw  a  tall,  dark  woman  walking 
swiftly  along  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  From  the 
very  first  her  figure  was  somehow  familiar  to  me,  and 


118  A  MONK  OF  VRUTA 

She  stopped  outside  the  closed  door,  and  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  as  though  doubtful  whether  to  ring  or 
not.  During  her  moment  of  hesitation  she  glanced 
round,  and  I  recognised  her.  She  could  not  see  me, 
for  I  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  underground  tunnel. 

"  Blarmed  if  she  ain't  come  again,"  the  man  growled. 
"  She's  as  regular  as  clockwork !  Wonder  what  she 
wants!" 

I  felt  my  knees  trembling ;  I  could  not  have  crossed 
the  road  at  that  moment  if  it  had  been  to  save  my  life. 
The  boy  looked  up  at  me  curiously. 

"  Happen  you  know  her,  lady,"  he  remarked.  "  She's 
been  here  at  this  time,  or  thereabouts,  pretty  near 
every  day  for  a  fortnight." 

Happen  I  know  her!  Yes,  that  was  the  boy's  odd 
phrase.  It  rang  in  my  ears,  and  I  found  myself  gasp- 
ing for  breath.  My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  that  tall, 
slender  figure,  clothed  in  sober  black,  waiting  upon 
the  doorstep  with  bowed  head,  and  standing  very  still 
and  motionless.  It  was  like  an  effigy  of  patience. 
There  were  not  two  women  in  the  world  like  that;  it 
was  impossible.  She  was  in  England,  and  alone — 
free!  What  did  it  mean?  Should  I  run  to  her,  or 
hide  away?  I  glanced  over  my  shoulder  where  the 
black  shadows  of  the  tunnel  were  only  dimly  lit  by 
the  feeble  gaslight  I  could  steal  away,  and  she  would 


ADR E A' 8  DIARY  119 

never  see  me.  Yet  as  I  thought  of  it,  the  grimy,  bar- 
ren street  and  the  solemn -looking  building  faded  away 
before  my  eyes.  The  sun  and  wind  burned  my  face; 
the  wind,  salt  with  ocean  spray,  and  echoing  with  the 
hoarse  screaming  of  the  sea-birds  that  rode  upon  it. 
I  was  at  Cruta  again,  panting  to  be  free,  stealing  away 
in  the  twilight  down  the  narrow  path  amongst  the  rocks 
to  where  that  tiny  boat  lay  waiting,  like  a  speck  upon 
the  waters.  And  it  was  she  who  had  helped  me — the 
sad-faced  woman  who  had  braved  the  terrible  anger  of 
the  man  whom  we  had  both  dreaded.  Again  I  heard 
her  gentle  words  of  counsel,  and  the  answering  lies 
which  should  have  blistered  my  lips.  For  I  lied  to 
her,  not  hastily  or  on  impulse,  but  deliberately  in  cold 
blood.  Anything,  I  cried  to  myself,  to  escape  from 
this  rock,  this  living  death!  So  I  lied  to  her,  and  she 
helped  me.  No  wonder  that  I  trembled.  No  wonder 
that  I  half  made  up  my  mind  to  flee  away  into  the 
sheltering  darkness  of  that  noisome-looking  tunnel. 

It  takes  long  to  set  down  in  writing  the  thoughts 
which  flashed  through  me  at  that  moment.  Yet  when 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  the  woman  was  still  there, 
waiting  meekly  before  the  closed  door. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  her,"  I  said  to  the  boy,  who 
was  half-sitting,  half-crouching  against  the  side  of  the 
tunnel.  "  What  was  it  you  said  ?  I  did  not  hear." 


120  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

Man  and  boy  commenced  to  tell  me  together.  Their 
strange  London  talk  puzzled  me,  and  I  could  only  ex- 
tract a  confused  sense  of  what  they  said.  The  woman, 
to  whom  they  rudely  pointed,  had  called  at  the  build- 
ing opposite  every  day  for  a  fortnight  at  about  this 
hour  to  make  some  inquiry.  Day  by  day  she  had 
turned  away,  after  one  brief  question  asked  and  an- 
swered, with  bowed  head  and  dejected  manner.  Yet, 
day  by  day,  she  returned  and  repeated  it  Ever 
the  same  disappointment,  the  same  despair! 

They  knew  nothing  more.  Her  regular  visits  had 
awakened  a  certain  curiosity  in  them,  and  they  had 
commenced  to  look  for  them,  and  indulge  in  a  little 
mild  speculation  as  to  her  one  day  meeting  with  a 
different  reception.  Nothing  more!  There  was  a 
shade  of  pity  in  the  boy's  tone,  and  I  gave  him  a 
shilling;  then  I  crossed  the  road. 

As  I  left  the  kerbstone,  the  door  opened  and  I  heard 
her  question : — 

"Has  Father  Adrian  called  or  written,  or  sent  any 
address  yet,  please  ?  " 

The  man,  who  had  opened  the  door  only  a  few 
inches,  kept  in  the  background,  and  I  could  see  noth- 
ing of  him,  but  I  heard  his  grim,  monosyllable  reply: 

"No!    Father  Adrian  has  not  visited  or  comixmui 
cated  with  us." 


ADHEA'S  DIARY  121 

She  turned  away  with  a  meek  "  Thank  you,"  and 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  me.  My  heart  smote 
me  when  I  saw  how  poor  were  her  clothes,  and  how 
thin  her  features. 

At  first  she  did  not  know  me;  but  I  raised  my  veil, 
and  whispered  her  name  softly  in  her  ear. 

She  threw  up  her  hands,  and  swayed  backwards  and 
forwards  upon  the  pavement. 

"Adrea!   Adrea!"  she  cried  wildly.     "My  God!" 

A  cab  drove  up,  and  I  called  it.  She  had  just 
strength  enough  to  enter  it,  leaning  heavily  upon  my 
arm;  then  she  fainted. 


122  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


CHAPTER   XII 

"  WE   ABE   LIKE   SHOOTING   STABS,  WHOSE   MEETING   IS 
THEIB   BUIN  " 

TO-NIGHT  I  have  had  another  shock!  I  was  sitting 
alone  in  my  room  down-stairs,  dreaming  over  the  fire, 
when  a  footstep  sounded  upon  the  stairs.  At  first  I 
thought  that  it  might  be  Paul,  and  I  sprang  up,  and 
stood  listening  intently.  What  a  little  fool  I  was!  I 
felt  the  colour  burning  in  my  cheeks,  and  my  heart 
was  beating.  I  listened  to  the  tread,  and  the  mad- 
ness passed  away.  It  was  a  man's  footsteps,  but  not 
Paul's. 

They  halted  at  my  door,  and  there  was  a  firm,  de- 
liberate knock.  Before  I  could  reply,  the  handle  was 
turned,  and  a  figure  stood  upon  the  threshold. 

My  little  chamber  was  in  darkness,  but  the  clear, 
cold  voice  struck  a  vague  note  of  familiarity. 

"I  seek  Adrea  Kiros!  Are  these  her  rooms?  Are 
you  she  ?  " 

I  struck  a  match  with  trembling  fingers,  and  looked 
eagerly  towards  the  doorway,  A  man  stood  there, 


"WE  ARE  LIKE  SHOOTING  STARS"  123 

dark,  stern,  and  forbidding,  looking  steadfastly  towards 
me.  My  memory  had  not  deceived  me !  It  was  Father 
Adrian! 

"You  have  found  me  out,"  I  said  slowly.  "Co'me 
inside  and  close  the  door." 

He  moved  slowly  forward,  and  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  His  face  was  as  white  as  marble  and  as 
steadfast;  but  his  dark  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  chal- 
lenging mine  to  meet  them,  were  full  of  smouldering 
fire.  I  summoned  up  all  my  courage,  and  threw  myself 
into  a  low  chair,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"You  are  not  exactly  cordial,"  I  said.  "  If  you  have 
anything  to  say  to  me,  won't  you  sit  down?" 

"If  I  have  anything  to  say  to  you!  "  he  repeated, 
and  his  whole  tone  seemed  vibrating  with  hardly  sub- 
dued passion.  "  If  I  have  anything  to  say  to  you!  Is 
this  your  greeting?  " 

"Why,  no,  not  if  you  come  as  a  friend!  But  when 
you  stand  and  glare  at  me  comme  cela,  what  do  you  ex- 
pect ?  Nothing  very  cordial,  surely ! " 

He  advanced  a  step  further  towards  me.  I  watched 
him  steadfastly,  and  I  knew  that  the  old  madness  was 
not  dead.  I  was  glad.  It  made  the  struggle  betwsen 
us  more  even. 

"Have  I  no  cause  to  look  at  you  sternly,  Adrea?" 
he  demanded, — "you  who  deceived  us!  you  who  lied 


124  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

to  us,  to  win  our  aid!  Where  would  you  have  been 
now  had  it  not  been  for  me?  At  Cruta!  Would  to 
God  my  hand  had  withered  before  it  had  set  you  free! " 

"You  are  very  kind!  " 

"  Girl,  are  you  mad  ?  At  Cruta  you  were  thought- 
less and  gay,  but  God  knows  your  heart  was  pure.  Now 
you  are  a  paid  dancing  girl !  " 

I  turned  upon  him  suddenly,  rising  to  my  full  height, 
and  looking  him  straight  in  the  face.  He  did  not 
flinch,  but  a  faint  colour  rose  to  his  forehead  as  he  con- 
tinued. 

"Stop!  "  I  said.  "You  are  talking  of  those  things 
which  you  do  not  understand.  You  could  not  possibly 
understand.  You  and  I  are  different;  we  belong  to 
different  worlds.  The  things  of  your  world  are  not  the 
things  of  mine.  Leave  me  now,  and  for  ever,  and  let 
us  go  our  own  ways.  We  measure  things  by  different 
quantities.  You  are  a  priest,  and  very  much  a  priest, 
and  I  am  a  woman,  and  very  much  a  woman !  For  the 
past  I  am  grateful ;  for  its  sake  I  forget  the  insults  of 
the  present.  Now  go! " 

I  knew  quite  well  that  he  would  not  take  me  at  my 
word,  nor  did  he. 

"  Adrea,  I  cannot  go  and  lose  all  knowledge  of  you 
for  ever,"  he  said  sadly.  "For  my  own  sake  I  would 
say,  Would  to  God  that  I  could!  but  it  is  impossible. 


"WE  ARE  LIKE  SHOOTING  STARS"  125 

Within  me  there  is  a  voice  which  whispers  'Fly,'  but  I 
cannot;  your  future  is  still  as  dear  to  me  as  in  the  old 
days.  Oh!  Adrea!  I  have  sorrowed  and  mourned  lest 
our  last  parting  had  been  for  ever,  and  now,  alas!  I 
would  that  it  had  been;  I  would  to  God  that  I  had 
never  found  you  out!" 

"You  can  forget  it,"  I  said  coldly. 

"  I  can  never  forget  it,"  he  answered  fiercely.  " Girl! 
you  seem  to  me  sometimes  like  a  scourge !  Tour  mem- 
ory is  a  very  nightmare  of  sin !  You  have  brought  me 
nothing  but  pain  and  remorse  and  anguish  of  heart. 
For  all  my  suffering  tiiere  is  no  brighter  side;  yet  I 
cannot  forget  it!" 

Despite  his  fierce  words,  which  for  a  moment  had 
burned  in  my  ears,  I  pitied  him.  In  the  old  days  he 
had  been  my  champion,  and  it  was  his  hand,  together 
with  hers,  which  had  aided  my  escape  from  Cruta.  So 
I  spoke  to  him  softly. 

"I  am  sorry!  As  I  said,  we  are  of  different  moulds, 
and  we  belong  to  a  different  branch  of  humanity.  We 
are  neither  of  us  inclined  to  change !  Let  us  go  our 
own  ways,  and  apart!  " 

He  was  close  by  my  side  now,  and  his  hand  was 
resting  on  the  back  of  my  chair.  I  laid  mine  upon  it 
for  a  moment;  it  was  cold  as  ice,  and  shaking.  The 
old  madness  was  upon  him  indeed. 


136  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"You  were  kind  to  me  at  Cruta,"  I  continued.  "I 
do  not  forget  it,  and  I  thank  you  for  it!  But  we  are 
as  far  apart  as  the  poles,  and  we  must  continue  so." 

The  position  between  us  seemed  reversed.  He  stood 
by  my  side,  pale  and  passionate,  with  his  clear  eyes 
full  of  a  strange  wistfulness. 

"All  that  you  say  is,  in  a  measure,  true,"  he  said  in 
a  low  tone;  "  yet  do  not  send  me  away  from  you!  Some 
day  you  may  see  things  differently;  some  day  trouble 
may  come  to  you,  and  I  may  be  your  helper!  There  is 
only  one  thing:  I  would  have  you  look  upon  me  as  a 
brother,  and  I  would  have  you  give  me  a  brother's  con- 
fidence." 

"  I  would  gladly  be  friends  with  you,"  I  answered, 
"  only  do  not  seek  more  than  I  choose  to  tell  you.  AP 
for  the  things  you  charge  me  with,  there  is  truth  and 
falsehood  in  them.  It  is  true  that  I  have  earned  my 
living  by  dancing,  but  it  has  been  in  private  only.  Of 
course,  you  know  nothing  about  it;  how  should  you? 
But  I  am  not  a  ballet  dancer,  as  I  believe  you  think." 

"  You  are  not  upon  the  stage,  then  ?  " 

"No!  nor  do  I  dance  in  short  skirts!  Some  day  I 
will  give  you  an  exhibition  in  this  room!  Now  don't 
look  like  that,"  I  added  quickly;  "I  was  only  joking. 
I  would  not  defile  the  air  around  your  saintliness  for 
the  world!  But  I  want  to  tell  you  this:  my  danciug  ia 


"WE  ABE  LIKE  SHOOTING  STARS"  127 

recognised  as  an  art.  I  rank  everywhere  with  the  men 
and  women  who  are  called  artists,  the  men  and  women 
who  are  ever  striving  to  realize  in  some  manner  a  par- 
ticular ideal  of  beauty  through  different  channels. 
The  highest  development  of  physical  beauty  in  the 
human  form  is  in  grace  of  motion.  I  aim  at  the  beau- 
tiful in  illustrating  this.  I  didn't  know  it  myself  until 
a  great  painter  told  me  so,  but  I  am  beginning  to 
understand.  I  don't  expect  you  to;  you  must  take  it 
on  trust." 

"  It  sounds  strange  to  me,  but  I  do  not  doubt  that 
there  is  truth,  some  truth  in  it,"  he  admitted  gravely. 

"  You  and  I  look  upon  life,  and  all  its  connections, 
with  different  eyes,"  I  continued.  "  What  may  seem 
sin  to  you,  may  be  justified  to  me.  Yet  I  will  stoop  to 
answer  your  unspoken  question.  As  I  was  at  Cruta, 
so  i  a  i  -'W '  It  may  be  that  I  am  better,  for  I  have 
done  a  good  action !  " 

He  held  up  his  hand,  but  I  took  no  notice. 

"  I  will  tell  it  you.  A  few  days  ago,  chance  brought 
in  my  way  a  most  unhappy  woman.  She  had  escaped 
from  an  odious  captivity,  only  to  find  herself  alone, 
friendless  and  penniless  in  a  strange  city.  The  man 
on  whom  she  had  counted  for  help  she  could  not  find. 
He  had  given  her  an  address  where  she  might  always 


128  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

hear  of  him.  Day  by  day  she  inquired  there  in  vain, 
It  may  have  been  through  no  fault  of  his,  but  she  was 
in  sore  straits." 

"Her  name?" 

"I  found  her,  and  brought  her  home.  She  lives 
with  me;  she  is  here!  " 

The  door  was  opening  as  I  spoke,  and  she  entered. 
They  stood  face  to  face,  silent  with  the  shock  of  so 
sudden  a  meeting.  Then  he  stepped  quickly  forward, 
and,  taking  her  hands,  drew  her  to  him.  I  slipped 
away,  and  left  them  alone  together. 


•  THE  PA  TH  TEA  T  LEADS  "  139 


CHAPTER  XIH 

"THE  PATH  THAT   LEADS  TO  MADMEN'S  KINGDOMS*' 

A  NORTH-COUNTRY  storm  of  rain  and  wind  had  sud- 
denly blown  up  from  the  sea,  and  the  few  remaining 
followers  of  the  De  Yaux  hounds  were  dispersed  right 
and  left,  making  for  home  with  all  possible  speed. 
The  sky  had  looked  dull  and  threatening  all  day  long, 
and  with  the  first  shades  of  twilight  the  rain  had  com- 
menced to  fall  in  a  sudden  torrent.  There  had  been 
some  little  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  master  about 
drawing  this  last  cover,  for  the  hounds  had  had  a  rough 
day,  and  the  field  was  small;  and  directly  the  storm 
broke,  the  horn  was  blown  without  hesitation,  The 
pack  was  re-called,  and  the  huntsman,  cracking  his 
whip,  started  for  home  at  a  long,  swinging  trot  The 
day's  sport  was  over. 

There  were  only  a  handful  of  horsemen  waiting  out- 
side when  the  signal  was  given,  and  with  collars  turned 
up  to  their  ears,  and  cigars  alight,  they  were  very  soon 
riding  down  the  hill  to  the  village  whose  lights  were 
beginning  to  twinkle  out  from  the  darkness  in  the 


130  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 

valley  below.  At  the  cross-roads,  Paul,  who  had  been 
riding  in  the  midst  of  them,  wheeled  his  horse  round 
and  took  the  road  to  Vaux,  Abbey  amidst  a  chorus  of 
farewells. 

"  Are  you  going  for  the  Abbey,  De  Vaux?  "  Captain 
Westover  asked,  reining  in  his  horse.  "  Better  come 
home  with  me,  and  dine!  I'll  send  you  back  to-night, 
and  they'll  look  after  your  mare  all  right  in  the  stables. 
Come  along!" 

Faul  shook  his  head.  "I'll  get  home,  thanks!  "  he 
answered,  "A  wetting  won't  hurt  me,  and  there's 
only  a  mile  or  two  of  it." 

Captain  "Westover  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Just 
as  you  like.  My  people  would  be  very  glad  to  see 
you!  By  the  bye,  you  were  to  have  called  last  week, 
weren't  you  ?  Lady  May  was  asking  where  you  were 
this  morning!  Come  and  dine  to-morrow  night!  " 

"  Thanks!  Unless  I  send  word  over  to  the  contrary, 
I  will,  then!  Good-night!" 

"Good-night!" 

Captain  Westover  cantered  on  after  the  others,  and 
Paul  turned  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  riding  slowly, 
with  bent  head  and  loose  bridle.  In  his  pocket  was 
Adrea's  letter,  scarcely  a  week  old;  and  now  that  the 
physical  excitement  of  the  day  was  over,  his  thoughts, 
as  usual,  were  full  of  it  again.  It  was  an  uphill  battle 


"  THE  PA  TH  TEA  T  LEADS  "  131 

that  he  was  fighting!  All  day  long  he  had  been  striv- 
ing to  forget  it!  He  had  spared  neither  himself  nor 
his  horses  in  the  desperate  attempt  to  reach  such  a 
stage  of  physical  exhaustion  as  should  make  his  mind 
a  blank — as  should  free  it,  at  any  rate,  from  those  tor- 
turing memories,  and  the  fierce  restlessness  which  they 
begat.  He  had  tried  his  utmost,  and  he  had  failed. 
His  pink  hunting-coat  and  tops,  immaculate  at  the 
start,  were  covered  with  thick  mud,  and  his  horse  (his 
second  mount)  was  scarcely  able  to  put  one  foot  before 
the  other.  Yet  he  had  failed  utterly.  Hunger  and 
fatigue  seemed  things  far  away  to  him.  Wherever  he 
looked — out  into  the  grey  mists,  which  came  rolling 
across  the  moor,  soaking  him  with  moisture,  or  down 
into  the  road,  fast  becoming  a  bog,  or  up  into  the  dim 
sky — he  seemed  to  see  the  pages  of  Adrea's  letter 
standing  out  before  him,  word  for  word,  phrase  for 
phrase.  Every  sentence  of  it  seemed  to  him  as  vivid 
and  real  as  though  it  had  been  spoken  in  his  ears ;  nay, 
he  could  almost  fancy  that  he  saw  the  great  tears  well- 
ing slowly  out  of  those  soft,  dark  eyes,  and  could  hear 
the  passionate  quiver  in  her  faltering  tones.  Day  by 
day  it  had  been  a  desperate  struggle  with  him  to  resist 
the  mad  desire  which  prompted  him  to  order  a  dog- 
cart, drive  to  the  nearest  town,  and  catch  the  mail  train 
to  London.  Beyond  that — how  she  would  receive  him, 


132  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

what  he  would  say  to  her — everything  was  chaos;  he 
dared  not  trust  himself  to  think  about  it. 

Yet,  whenever  he  suffered  his  thoughts  to  dwell  upon 
this  matter  at  all,  the  reverse  side  of  it  all  sooner  or 
later  presented  itself.  Clear  and  insistent  above  the 
emotion  which  swayed  him  came  ever  that  uncompro- 
mising question — where  lay  his  duty  in  this  matter  ? 
It  was  the  true  and  manly  side  of  his  nature,  developed 
by  instinct  and  long  training,  and  refusing  now  to  be 
overborne  and  swept  away  by  this  surging  tide  of  pas- 
sion. It  rang  in  his  ears,  and  it  demanded  an  answer. 
Away  in  the  distance,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley, 
his  vacant  eyes  rested  idly  upon  the  many  lights  and 
dim  outline  of  Westover  Castle.  What  place  had  Lady 
May  in  his  heart?  Was  there  room  for  her — and 
Adrea?  Could  he  see  Adrea  day  by  day,  and  never 
pass  the  barrier  which  he  himself  had  set  up  between 
them.  What  did  he  wish  ?  What  was  right  ?  Just 
then  everything  was  to  him  so  vague  and  chaotic. 

He  had  been  riding  for  nearly  an  hour,  with  his 
reins  quite  loose  upon  his  horse's  neck,  and  trusting 
entirely  to  her  to  take  the  homeward  route.  Suddenly 
his  mare  came  to  an  abrupt  halt,  and  Paul  looked 
around  him  in  surprise.  At  first  he  had  not  the  faint- 
est idea  as  to  his  whereabouts;  then  a  dull  roar,  com- 
ing from  across  a  narrow  strip  of  moorland  on  hig  left, 


"  THE  PA  TH  TEA  T  LEADS  "  183 

gave  him  a  clue,  and  he  saw  what  had  happened.  In- 
stead of  turning  inland  to  Vaux  Abbey,  his  horse  had 
kept  straight  on,  and  had  brought  him  almost  to  the 
sea — a  good  five  miles  out  of  his  way. 

The  situation  was  not  a  cheerful  one.  They  were 
ten  miles  from  home,  and  Ironsides,  completely  done 
up,  was  trembling  ominously  at  the  knees,  and  looking 
around  at  him  pitifully.  Paul  himself  was  wet  to  the 
skin;  and  as  he  dismounted  for  a  moment  to  ease  his 
stiff  limbs,  he  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  inclination 
to  shiver.  The  grey  mists  were  rolling  up  all  round 
them;  and  directly  Paul's  feet  touched  the  ground,  he 
felt  himself  sink  ankle-deep  in  the  wet,  soft  sand.  It 
was  all  horribly  uncomfortable,  and  more  than  that,  it 
was  serious ;  for  immediately  he  had  passed  his  hand 
over  his  horse's  flanks  and  felt  her  knees,  Paul  knew 
that  she  was  not  in  a  condition  for  him  to  mount  her 
again.  There  was  no  hope  of  reaching  Vaux  Abbey 
without  rest  and  refreshments,  for  Ironsides  at  any 
rate. 

He  looked  steadily  around  him,  and  began  to  get 
some  faint  idea  as  to  his  whereabouts.  His  mare  must 
have  been  deceived  by  following  a  private  road  which 
led  to  a  cottage  belonging  to  an  old  half-pay  officer, 
Major  Harcourt.  They  had  evidently  passed  the  cot- 
tage, and  pursued  the  road  almost  to  its  termination, 


134  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

for  where  they  now  were  it  was  little  better  than  a 
sheep-track,  leading  through  a  closed  gate  a  few  yards 
in  front  of  them  into  a  scattered  pine  plantation  and 
down  to  the  sea.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  retrace 
their  steps  until  they  came  to  the  cottage,  and  there  beg 
shelter  for  a  while. 

"We've  made  a  mess  of  it,  old  girl!"  Paul  said 
soothingly,  patting  his  mare's  neck,  and  passing  his 
arm  through  the  bridle.  "  Come  on,  then!  We'll  see 
whether  we  can't  find  an  empty  stall  for  you  at  Major 
Harcourt's." 

They  retraced  their  steps,  the  mare  limping  wearily 
along  by  Paul's  side,  and  every  now  and  then  stopping 
to  look  at  him  in  despair.  Paul  found  a  grim  humour 
in  the  situation.  It  was  the  quagmire  into  which 
thoughts  of  Adrea  had  led  him ;  a  parable  sent  to  show 
him  the  folly  of  such  thoughts,  and  whither  they 
tended.  He  laughed  a  little  bitterly  at  the  thought. 
Once,  when  a  very  young  man,  he  had  thought  himself 
a  fatalist.  After  all,  perhaps  it  was  the  best  thing  to 
be!  Conscience  and  duty  were  wearisome  guides;  a 
course  of  voluntary  drifting  would  be  rather  a  relief. 

Suddenly  the  mare  pricked  up  her  ears,  and  neighed. 
Paul  looked  steadily  through  the  mist,  and  quickened 
his  pace.  Scarcely  a  hundred  yards  ahead  was  the  dim 
outline  of  the  cottage,  nestled  up  against  a  pine  grove 
and  facing  the  sea. 


" THE  PA TH  TEA  T  LEADS  "  135 

Paul  was  fairly  well  acquainted  with  Major  Harcourt ; 
and  although  he  had  seen  nothing  of  him  for  some 
time,  he  had  not  the  slightest  compunction  in  claiming 
shelter  for  himself  and  his  horse.  He  led  her  up  the 
trim,  winding  drive  to  the  front  door,  and  rang  the 
bell. 

"  Is  Major  Har "  Paul  began,  as  the  door  was 

opened ;  then  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

The  man-servant  who  had  opened  the  door,  and  was 
standing  on  the  step,  peering  out  into  the  darkness, 
was  a  familiar  figure  to  him.  It  was  Gomez  I 


A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  THE   POISON  OP  HONEY  FLOWERS  " 

THE  recognition  was  not  immediately  simultaneous. 
Gomez,  standing  on  the  step,  was  in  the  full  light  of 
the  hall  lamp,  but  Paul  was  still  amongst  the  shadows. 

" Don't  you  know  me,  Gomez?"  Paul  asked,  step- 
ping forward.  "I  am  Paul  de  Vaux." 

A  shade  passed  across  the  man's  face,  and  he  laid 
his  hand  quickly  upon  his  heart,  as  though  to  cease 
some  sudden  pain.  Then  he  stood  on  one  side,  hold- 
ing the  door  open. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Paul;  I  could  not  see  your 
face  out  there.  "Won't  you  walk  in,  sir?  " 

Paul  dropped  his  mare's  bridle  and  stepped  inside. 
The  polished  white  stone  hall,  with  its  huge  fire  in  the 
centre,  looked  warm  and  comfortable,  and  away  in  the 
distance  there  was  a  cheerful  rattle  of  teacups. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Gomez  ?  "  Paul  asked, 
shaking  the  wet  from  his  hat.  "I  understood  that  you 
were  going  to  take  the  under-bailiffs  place." 

"  Higgs  has  not  left  yet,  sir,"  Gomez  answered.     I 


"THE  POISON  OF  HONEY  FLOWERS"  137 

have  been  living  here  as  caretaker  for  Major  Harcourt." 

"  Caretaker!    Isn't  he  at  home  then?  " 

Gomez  shook  his  head,  looking  keenly  at  Paul  all 
the  time.  "  Major  Harcourt  does  not  winter  here  now, 
sir.  He  has  let  the  place,  furnished." 

"  What  a  confounded  nuisance!  To  whom  has  he 
let  it?"  Paul  asked  quickly.  "You  see  my  plight, 
and  my  horse  is  worse  off  still.  We  lost  our  way 
going  home  from  Dunston  Spinnies." 

"  Major  Harcourt's  tenant  is  a  lady,"  Gomez 
answered,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "  She  only 
arrived  yesterday." 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  annoyed,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  Well,  will  you  see  her  at  once  and  represent  mat- 
ters ?  I  want  a  loose  box  for  the  night  for  my  horse, 
and  a  rest  for  myself,  and  afterwards  a  conveyance  for 
the  Abbey,  if  possible.  Tell  her  my  name.  I  daresay 
she  won't  mind.  Who  is  she  ?  " 

Gomez  said  nothing  for  a  moment  Then  he  drew 
Paul  back  to  the  door,  and  pointed  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

"  Mr.  Paul,"  he  said,  in  a  quick,  hoarse  whisper,  "  at 
the  back  of  that  hedge  there  is  a  road  which  leads 
straight  up  to  the  Abbey.  It  is  a  matter  of  six  miles 
or  so,  I  know,  and  you  are  tired ;  but  that  is  nothing. 


138  A  MONK  OP  CRVTA 

Take  my  advice,  sir,  and  believe  me  it  is  for  your  good. 
Get  out  of  this  house  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  go  home, 
though  you  have  to  walk  every  step.  I'll  look  after 
your  horse,  and  you  can  send  for  it  in  the  morning.'1 

Paul  looked  into  the  man's  face  astonished.  "  What 
nonsense,  Gomez!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  know 
what  you  are  talking  about!  Why,  I'm  tired  out,  and 
almost  starved.  Here  I  am  and  here  I  shall  stop,  un- 
less your  mistress  is  as  inhospitable  as  you  are," 

Gomez  bowed,  and  closed  the  door.  "Very  good 
sir;  you  will  have  your  own  way,  of  course.  But  re- 
member in  the  future  that  I  was  faithful,  I  warned 
you.  Come  this  way,  sir.  I  will  send  your  horse 
round  to  the  stables.  The  name  of  the  lady  of  the 
house  is  Madame  de  Merteuill." 

A  little  uneasy  and  very  much  mystified,  Paul  fol- 
lowed him  across  the  hall,  and  was  silently  ushered  into 
a  long,  low  drawing-room,  a  room  of  nooks  and  cor- 
ners, furnished  in  old-fashioned  style,  but  with  perfect 
taste,  and  dimly  lit  with  soft,  shaded  lamps.  There 
was  a  bright  fire  blazing  on  the  hearth,  and  a  pleasant 
sense  of  warmth  in  the  air. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  though  the  room  was  empty, 
but  in  a  moment  a  tall,  pale-faced  lady,  with  wonder- 
fully dark  eyes  and  grey  hair,  rose  from  an  easy  chair 
behind  the  piano,  and  looked  at  him,  at  first  qu^s^on- 


"THE  POISON  OF  HONE 7  FLOWERS"  139 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  consider  this  an  unwar- 
rantable intrusion,"  Paul  said,  bowing;  "but  the  fact 
is,  I  lost  my  way  riding  home  from  the  hunt,  and  my 
horse  cannot  go  a  yard  further.  As  for  myself,  you 
can  see  what  state  I  am  in.  I  saw  your  lights,  and 
have  some  acquaintance  with  Major  Harcourt,  and  not 
knowing  that  he  had  left,  I  ventured  here  to  throw  my- 
self upon  his  hospitality.  My  name  is  De  Vaux — Paul 
de  Vaux;  and  although  it  is  some  distance  to  the  Abbey, 
I  believe  that  we  are  next-door  neighbours." 

It  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  Paul  that  he 
had  somehow  stumbled  upon  a  very  strange  house- 
hold. During  the  whole  of  his  speech,  the  lady  whom 
he  was  addressing  had  stood  silent  and  transfixed,  with 
wide-open  eyes  and  a  terrible  shrinking  look  of  fear 
upon  her  face.  She  must  be  mad,  Paul  concluded 
swiftly.  What  an  ass  Gomez  was  not  to  have  told 
him!  While  he  was  wondering  how  to  get  away,  she 
spoke. 

"Your  name  de  Vaux,  Paul  de  Vaux,  near  Vaux 
Abbey?" 

He  bowed,  looking  at  her  with  fresh  interest.  His 
name  seemed  familiar  to  her.  In  a  moment  or  two 
the  unnatural  lethargy  left  her,  and  she  spoke  to  him, 
though  still  in  a  curiously  suppressed  tone. 


140  A  MONK  OF  CHUT  A 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are  welcome.  I  was  a 
little  startled  at  first." 

She  rang  the  bell.     Gomez  answered  it. 

"Bring  some  fresh  tea,  and  some  sandwiches  and 
wine,"  she  ordered.  "Tell  them  in  the  stables  to  see 
that  this  gentleman's  horse  has  every  attention." 

Gomez  received  his  orders  in  silence,  and  withdrew 
with  darkening  face.  Paul  looked  after  him  with  sur- 
prise. 

"  Gomez  does  not  seem  particularly  pleased  to  see 
me  again,"  he  remarked.  "  What  is  the  matter  with 
the  man,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"It  is  only  his  manner,  I  think,"  she  said  softly. 
"He  was  your  father's  servant,  was  he  not?" 

"  Yes.  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 
"  Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  he  told  you,  of  course.  You 
will  find  him  a  faithful  servant." 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  made  no  reply.  Indeed, 
Paul  found  it  very  difficult  to  start  a  conversation  of 
any  sort  with  his  new  neighbour.  To  all  his  remarks 
she  returned  only  monosyllabic  answers,  looking  at 
him  steadily  all  the  while  out  of  her  full,  dark  eyes  in 
a  far-away,  wistful  manner,  as  though  she  saw  in  his 
face  something  which  carried  her  thoughts  into  another 
world.  It  was  a  little  uncomfortable  for  Paul,  and  he 
was  not  sorry  when  Gomez  reappeared,  bearing  a  tray 
with  refreshments. 


"  THE  POISON  OF  HONEY  PL 0  WER8 "  141 

She  handed  him  his  tea  in  silence;  and  Paul,  who 
would  have  been  ashamed  to  have  called  himself  curi- 
ous, but  who  was  by  this  time  not  a  little  puzzled  at 
her  manner,  made  one  more  effort  at  conversation. 

"  I  think  you  said  that  you  were  quite  strange  to 
this  part  of  the  country,"  he  remarked.  "We,  who 
have  lived  here  all  our  lives,  are  fond  of  it;  but  I'm 
afraid  you'll  find  it  rather  dull  at  first.  There  is  very 
little  society." 

"We  do  not  desire  any,"  she  said  hastily.  "We 
came  here — at  least  I  came  here — for  the  sake  of 
indulging  in  absolute  seclusion.  It  is  the  same  with 
my  step-daughter.  In  London  she  had  been  forced 
to  keep  late  hours,  and  her  health  has  suffered.  The 
doctor  prescribed  complete  rest;  I,  too,  desired  rest, 
so  we  came  here.  A  London  house  agent  arranged  it 
for  us." 

So  there  was  a  step-daughter  who  lived  in  London, 
and  who  went  out  a  great  deal.  The  mention  of  her 
gave  Paul  an  opportunity. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  have  ever  met  your  daughter  in 
town,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "  I  am  there  a  good  deal, 
and  I  have  rather  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances." 

The  implied  question  seemed  to  disconcert  her. 
She  coloured,  and  then  grew  suddenly  pale.  Her  eyes 
no  longer  looked  into  his;  they  were  fixed  steadfastly 
upon  the  fire. 


143  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  It  is  not  at  all  probable,"  she  said,  nervously  lacing 
and  interlacing  her  slim  white  fingers.  "  No,  it  is 
scarcely  possible.  You  would  not  be  likely  to  meet 
her.  Your  friends  would  not  be  her  friends.  She 
knows  so  few  people.  Ah!  " 

She  started  quickly.  The  door  had  opened,  but  it  was 
only  Gomez,  who  had  come  in  with  a  tray  for  the 
empty  tea-things.  There  was  a  dead  silence  whilst 
he  removed  them.  Paul  scarcely  knew  what  to  say. 
His  hostess  puzzled  him  completely.  Perhaps  this 
step-daughter,  whose  name,  together  with  her  own,  she 
seemed  so  anxious  to  conceal,  was  mad,  and  she  had 
brought  her  down  here  instead  of  sending  her  to  an 
asylum ;  or  perhaps  she  herself  was  mad.  He  glanced 
at  her  furtively,  and  at  once  dismissed  the  latter  idea. 
Her  face,  careworn  and  curiously  pallid  though  it  was, 
was  the  face  of  no  madwoman.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
woman  who  had  passed  through  a  fiery  sea  of  this 
world's  trouble  and  suffering — suffering  which  had 
left  its  marks  stamped  upon  her  features;  but,  of  his 
own  accord,  he  would  never  have  put  it  down  as  the 
face  of  a  weak  or  erring  woman. 

There  was  a  mystery — of  that  he  felt  sure;  but  it 
was  no  part  of  his  business  to  seek  to  unravel  it  The 
best  thing  he  could  do,  he  felt,  was  to  get  up  and  go. 
He  could  scarcely  maintain  a  conversation  without 


' '  THE  POISON  OF  HO  NET  PL  0  WER8  "  143 

asking  or  implying  questions  which  seemed  to  painfully 
embarrass  his  hostess. 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  he  said,  rising  and 
holding  out  his  hand.  "I  feel  quite  a  new  man!  If 
you  don't  mind  I'd  like  to  leave  my  mare  here  until 
to-morrow.  She  really  isn't  fit  to  travel.  My  man 
shall  come  for  her  early." 

" Pray  do! "  she  answered  quickly.     "  Ah! " 

She  had  started,  and  clutched  at  the  back  of  her 
chair  with  trembling  fingers.  Her  eyes,  wide  open 
and  startled,  were  fixed  upon  the  door. 

Paul,  too,  turned  round,  and  uttered  a  little  cry. 
His  heart  beat  fast,  and  the  room  swam  before  him. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  perfectly  still,  with  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  figure  in  the  doorway. 


144  A  MONK  OF  ORUTA 


CHAPTEE  XV 

"AilD  MOST  OF    ALL    WOULD    I   PLY   FROM    THE    CRUEL 
MADNESS   OF   LOVE  " 

IT  WAS  Adrea — Adrea  herself!  She  stood  there  in 
the  shadow  of  the  doorway,  with  her  lips  slightly 
parted,  and  her  great  eyes,  soft  and  brilliant,  flashing 
in  the  ruddy  firelight.  It  was  no  vision;  it  was  she 
beyond  a  doubt! 

Even  when  the  first  shock  had  passed  away,  he  found 
himself  without  words;  the  wonder  of  it  had  dazed 
him.  He  had  thought  of  her  so  often  in  that  quaint, 
dainty  little  chamber  in  Grey  Street  that  to  see  her 
here  so  unexpectedly,  without  the  least  warning  or 
anticipation,  was  like  being  suddenly  confronted  with 
a  picture  which  had  stepped  out  of  its  frame.  And 
that  she  should  be  here,  too,  of  all  places,  here  in  this 
bleak  corner  of  the  kingdom,  where  blustering  winds 
swept  bare  the  sullen  moorland,  and  the  sea  was  al- 
ways grey  and  stormy.  What  strange  fate  could  have 
brought  her  here,  away  from  all  the  warmth  and  lux- 
ury of  London,  to  this  half-deserted  old  manor  house 


"AND  MOST  OF  ALL  WOULD  I  FLY"  145 

on  the  verge  of  the  heath?  His  mind  was  too  con- 
fused in  those  first  few  moments  to  follow  out  any  def- 
inite train  of  thought.  The  most  natural  conclusion, 
that  she  had  come  to  him,  did  not  enter  his  imagina- 
tion. 

His  first  impulse,  as  his  senses  became  clearer,  was 
to  glance  around  for  the  woman  who  had  called  Adrea 
her  step-daughter.  She  was  gone.  She  must  have 
stepped  out  of  the  room  by  the  opposite  doorway ;  and 
with  the  knowledge  that  they  were  alone,  he  breathed 
freer. 

"Adrea!"  he  said,  "it  is  really  you,  then!" 

His  words,  necessarily  commonplace,  dissolved  the 
situation.  She  laughed  softly,  and  came  further  into 
the  room. 

"It is  I,"  she  said.  "Did  you  think  that  I  was  an 
elf  from  spirit-land?" 

He  had  never  shaken  hands  with  her, — it  was  a 
thing  which  had  never  occurred  to  either  of  them ;  but 
a  sudden  impulse  came  to  him  then.  He  took  a  hasty 
step  forward,  and  clasped  both  her  little  white  hands 
in  his.  So  they  stood  for  another  minute  in  silence, 
and  a  strange,  soft  light  flashed  in  her  upturned  eyes. 
She  was  very  near  to  him,  and  there  was  an  indefin- 
able sense  of  yielding  in  her  manner,  amounting  almost 
to  a  mute  invitation.  He  felt  that  he  had  only  to  open 


146  A  MONK  OF  CfiUTA 

his  arms,  and  that  strange,  beautiful  face,  with  its 
mocking,  quivering  mouth,  would  be  very  close  to  his. 
The  old  battle  was  forced  upon  him  to  fight  all  over 
again;  and,  alas!  he  was  no  stronger. 

It  was  almost  as  though  she  had  seen  the  hesita- 
tion— the  conflict  in  him — for  with  a  sudden,  imperious 
gesture  she  withdrew  her  hands  and  turned  away  from 
him.  There  was  a  scarlet  flush  creeping  through  the 
deep  olive  of  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  dry  and 
brilliant.  Paul,  who  had  never  studied  women  or  their 
ways,  looked  at  her,  surprised  and  a  little  hurt. 

You  are  surprised  to  see  me  here,  of  course?"  she 
said,  sinking  into  a  low  easy-chair,  and  taking  up  a 
fire-screen  of  peacocks'  feathers,  as  though  to  shield 
her  face  from  the  fire.  "  Well,  it  is  quite  an  accident. 
I  wrote  you  rather  a  silly  letter  the  other  day;  but  you 
must  not  think  that  I  have  followed  you  down  here! " 

"  I  did  not  think  so,"  he  answered  hastily.  "The 
idea  never  occurred,  never  could  have  occurred  to  me!" 

She  continued,  without  heeding  his  interruption: 
"  I  will  explain  how  we  came  to  take  this  cottage.  A 
relative  of  mine  came  to  me  suddenly  from  abroad. 
She  was  in  great  trouble,  and  was  in  search  of  a  very 
secluded  dwelling-place,  where  she  might  live  for  a 
time  unknown.  T  also  was  in  bad  health,  and  the  doc- 
tor had  ordered  me  complete  rest  and  quiet  We  went 


"AND  MOST  OF  ALL  WOULD  I  FLY"  147 

to  a  house  agent,  and  told  him  what  we  wanted — to  get 
as  far  away  from  every  one  as  possible.  We  did  not 
care  how  lonely  the  place  was,  or  how  far  from  Lon- 
don ;  the  further  the  better.  This  house  was  to  let, 
furnished,  and  at  a  low  figure.  I  did  not  know  that 
Vaux  Abbey  was  in  the  same  county  even.  It  suited 
us,  and  we  took  it." 

"I  understand,"  Paul  answered.  "And  now  that 
you  are  here,  are  you  not  afraid  of  finding  it  dull?  " 

She  turned  away  from  him,  biting  her  lip.  "  You 
do  not  understand  me!  You  never  will.  No!  I  shall 
not  be  dull." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Adrea.     I " 

"Be  quiet!"  she  interrupted  impetuously.  "You 
think  that  I  am  too  frivolous  to  live  away  from  the 
glare  and  excitement  of  the  city.  Of  course!  To  you 
I  am  just  the  dancing  girl,  nothing  more.  Do  not  con- 
tradict me.  I  hate  your  serious  manner.  I  hate 
your  patronage.  Don't  contradict  me,  I  say.  Tell  me 
this.  How  did  you  find  me  out?  Why  are  you  here?" 

"I  have  been  out  hunting,  and  I  lost  my  way," 
Paul  answered  quietly.  "I  know  Major  Harcourt, 
and,  thinking  he  was  still  living  here,  I  called  for  a 
rest,  and  to  put  my  horse  up.  Your  step-mother  has 
been  very  kind  and  hospitable." 

Adrea  looked  at  him  curiously.     "Indeed!    She  has 


148  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

been  kind  to  you,  has  she?     Who  told  you  that  she 
was  my  step-mother?  " 

"  I  thought  I  understood  you  to  say  so." 
"Did  I?     Perhaps  so;  I  don't  remember.     So  she 
was  kind  to  you,  was  she?     She  has  no  cause  to  be." 
"  No  cause  to  be!     Why  not?" 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders,     "  Oh,  I  don't  know. 
I'm  talking  a  little  at  random,  I  think.     You  angered 
me,  Monsieur  Paul.     I  am  a  silly  girl,  am  I  not?    Do 
you  know  that  I  have  thrown  up  all  my  engagements 
until  next  season?     I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  dance 
again  at  all." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it." 
"  But  I  shall  go  on  the  stage." 
"  There  is  no  necessity  for  that,  is  there?" 
"  Necessity !     You  mean  that  I  have  not  to  earn  my 
bread.     That  may  be  true,  but  what  would  you  have 
me  to  do  ?     I  am  not  content  to  be  one  of  your  English 
young  ladies — to  sit  down,  and  learn  to  cook  and  darn, 
and  read  silly  books,  until  fate  is  kind  enough  to  send 
me  a  husband.     Not  so.     I  have  ambition ;  I  have  an 
artist's  instincts,  although  I  may  not  yet  be  an  artist. 
I  must  live;  I  must  have  light  and  colour  in  my  life." 
Paul  was  very  grave.     He  did  not  understand  this 
new   phase  in  Adrea's  development.      There   was   a 
eurious  hardness  in  her  tone  aud  a  recklessness  in  her 


"AND  MOST  OF  ALL  WOULD  I  FLY"  146 

speech  which  were  strange  to  him.  And  with  it  all  he 
felt  very  helpless.  He  could  not  play  the  part  of  guar- 
dian and  reprove  her;  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  argue 
with  her.  Women  and  their  ways  were  strange  to  him ; 
and,  besides,  Adrea  was  so  different. 

He  stood  up  on  the  hearthrug,  toying  with  his  long 
riding-whip,  puzzled  and  unhappy.  Adrea  was  angry 
with  him,  he  knew;  and  though  he  was  very  anxious 
to  set  himself  right  with  her,  he  felt  that  he  was  tread- 
ing on  dangerous  ground.  He  was  neither  sure  of  him- 
self nor  of  her. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  a  very  poor  counsellor,  Adrea," 
he  said  slowly;  "but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  want 
women  friends.  Your  life  has  been  too  lonely,  too  de- 
void of  feminine  interests." 

She  laughed — a  mirthless,  unpleasant  little  laugh. 
"  Women  friends!  Good!  You  say  that  I  have  none. 
It  is  true.  There  have  been  no  women  who  have 
offered  me  their  friendship  in  this  country.  You  call 
yourself  my  guardian.  Why  do  you  not  find  me  some  ?  " 

"  You  have  made  it  very  difficult,"  he  reminded  her. 

She  threw  a  scornful  glance  at  him.  "  Good!  That 
is  generous.  You  mean  to  say  that  I  have  made  my- 
self unfit  for  the  friendship  of  the  women  of  your 
family.  I  thank  you,  Monsieur  Paul.  I  think  that 


150  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

our  conversation  has  lasted  long  enough.  Let  me  pass ; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you." 

He  moved  quickly  towards  the  door,  and  barred  her 
passage.  There  was  a  dark  flush  in  his  cheeks  and  a 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  Up  till  then  his  manner  had  been 
a  little  deprecating,  but  at  her  last  words  it  had  sud- 
denly changed.  He  felt  that  she  was  unjust,  and  he 
was  indignant. 

"  Adrea,  you  talk  like  a  child,"  he  said  sternly.  "  I 
made  no  such  insinuation  as  you  suggest!  You  know 
that  I  did  not!  Sit  down!" 

She  obeyed  him ;  the  quick  change  in  his  manner 
had  startled  her,  and  taken  her  at  a  disadvantage.  She 
felt  the  force  of  his  superior  will,  and  she  yielded  to  it. 

He  leaned  over  her  chair,  and  his  voice  grew  softer. 
"  Adrea,  you  are  very,  very  unjust  to  me,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  wish  to  make  me  so  unhappy,  I  wonder?  For 
a  week  I  have  been  thinking  of  scarcely  anything  else 
save  our  last  parting,  and  now  if  I  had  not  stopped 
you,  almost  by  force,  you  would  have  left  me  again  in 
anger." 

His  tone  had  grown  almost  tender,  and,  as  though 
unconsciously,  his  hand  had  rested  upon  her  gleaming 
coils  of  dark,  braided  hair,  She  looked  up  at  him,  and 
in  the  firelight  he  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  soft  and 
dim. 


"AND  MOST  OF  ALL  WOULD  I  FLY"  151 

"  You  have  really  thought  of  me?  "  she  said  in  a  low 
tone.  "  You  have  really  been  unhappy  on  my  ac- 
count?" 

"  I  have! "  he  admitted.     "  Very  unhappy! " 

Something  in  his  tone — in  the  reluctance  with  which 
he  made  the  admission,  angered  her.  She  moved  a 
little  further  away,  and  her  voice  grew  harder. 

"Yes;  you  have  been  unhappy !"  she  said.  "And 
why?  It  was  because  you  were  ashamed  to  find  your- 
self thinking  of  me;  you,  Paul  de  Vaux,  a  citizen  of 
the  world  and  a  man  of  culture,  thinking  of  a  poor 
dancing  girl  with  only  her  looks  to  recommend  her! 
That  was  where  the  sting  lay !  That  was  what  red- 
dened your  cheek!  You  men!  You  are  as  selfish  as 
devils!" 

She  stamped  her  foot;  her  voice  was  shaking  with 
passion.  Paul  stood  before  her  with  a  deep  flush  on 
his  pale  cheeks,  silent,  like  a  man  suddenly  accused. 
Her  words  were  not  altogether  true,  but  they  were 
winged  with,  at  any  rate,  the  semblance  of  truth. 

She  continued — a  little  more  quietly,  but  with  her 
tone  and  form  still  vibrating 

"What  do  you  fear?  What  is  that  you  struggle 
against  ?  I  have  seen  you  when  it  has  been  your  will 
to  take  me — into  your  arms,  to  hold  my  hands.  Then 
I  have  seen  you  conquer  the  desire,  and  you  run  away, 


152  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

as  though  afraid  of  it.  Why?  Do  you  fear  that  I 
shall  seek  to  compromise  you? — is  not  that  the 
English  word?  Do  you  think  that  I  want  you  to 
marry  me?  Is  it  because  you  dare  not,  that  you — 
you  do  not  offer  to  take  my  hand,  even?  Tell  me  now  I 
Why  is  it?" 

"  For  your  own  sake,  Adrea ! " 

"  For  my  own  sake! "  she  repeated  scornfully.  "  Do 
you  believe  it  yourself?  Do  you  really  think  that  it 
is  true  ?  I  will  tell  you  why  it  is !  It  is  because  you 
have  no  thought,  no  imagination.  You  say  to  your- 
self, she  is  not  of  my  world.  I  cannot  marry  her." 

There  was  a  silence.  A  burning  coal  fell  upon  the 
hearth,  and  flamed  up;  the  glow  reached  Paul's  face. 
He  was  very  pale,  and  his  eyes  were  dry  and  brilliant. 
Suddenly  he  moved  forward,  and  clasped  Adrea's 
hands  tightly  in  his. 

"But,  Adrea!   are  you  sure  that  you  love  me?" 

A  sudden  change  swept  into  her  face.  Her  dark 
eyes  grew  wonderfully  soft. 

"Yes!"  she  answered,  looking  up  to  him  with  a 
swift,  brilliant  smile.  "I  am  sure!" 

He  held  out  his  arms ;  his  resistance  was  at  an  end. 
It  had  grown  weaker  and  weaker  during  those  last  few 
moments;  now  it  was  all  over,  swept  away  by  a  sud- 
den, tumultuous  passion,  so  strange  and  little  akin  to 


"AN$  MOST  OF  ALL  WOULD  I  FLY"  153 

the  man  that  it  startled  even  himself.  Afar  off  in  his 
mind  he  was  conscious  of  a  dim  sense  of  shame  as  he 
held  her  close  in  his  arms  and  felt  her  warm,  trem- 
bling lips  pressed  against  his.  But  it  was  like  an 
echo  from  a  distant  land.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a 
deep,  widening  gulf  lay  now  between  him  and  all  that 
had  gone  before.  His  old  self  was  dead!  A  new  man 
had  sprung  up,  with  a  new  personality,  and  the  time 
had  not  yet  come  for  regrets. 


164  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"  'TWIXT  YOU  AND  ME  A  NOISOME  SHADOW  CAST  " 

"ADREA!" 

It  was  a  cry  which  seemed  to  ring  through  the 
room,  an  interruption  so  sudden  and  strange  that  they 
started  apart  like  guilty  children,  gazing  towards  the 
lifted  curtain  which  divided  the  apartment  with  won- 
dering, half-fearful  faces.  The  woman  whom  Adrea 
had  called  her  step-mother  stood  there,  pale  and 
bloodless,  with  her  great  black  eyes  flashing,  and 
behind  her  a  tall,  dark  figure  was  gazing  sternly  at 
them. 

Adrea  was  the  first  to  recover  her  composure.  She 
was  a  little  further  away,  and  she  could  see  only  her 
step-mother. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  exclaimed  quickly.  "I 
desire  to  be  alone !  Why  do  you  stand  there  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  Then  the  momentary  silence 
was  broken  by  a  quick,  startled  cry  from  Paul,  which 
seemed  to  cleave  the  semi-darkness  of  the  room. 

"My  God!" 


"A  NOISOME  SHADOW  CAST"  155 

The  dark  figure  had  moved  forward,  and  was  stand- 
ing, pale  and  austere,  before  them.  It  was  Father 
Adrian. 

There  was  a  moment's  intense  silence.  Then  Paul 
turned  swiftly  round  to  where  Adrea  stood,  a  little 
behind  him.  But  the  suspicions  which  had  com- 
menced to  crowd  in  upon  him  vanished  before  even 
they  had  taken  to  themselves  definite  shape.  Her  sur- 
prise was  as  great  as  his;  and,  as  their  eyes  met,  she 
shuddered  with  the  memory  which  his  presence  had 
recalled. 

"  Paul  de  Vaux,  I  had  no  thought  of  meeting  you 
here,"  Father  Adrian  said  sternly. 

Paul  met  his  gaze  haughtily.  There  was  a  rebuke, 
almost  a  threat,  in  the  priest's  tone  which  angered 
him.  Whatever  his  presence  here  might  betide,  he 
was  in  no  way  responsible  for  it  to  Father  Adrian. 

"  Nor  I  you,"  he  answered.  "  I  imagined  that  you 
were  staying  at  the  monastery." 

"  I  am  staying  there." 

Madame  de  Merteuill  stepped  slowly  into  the  room. 
She  was  still  trembling,  and  had  all  the  appearance  of 
a  woman  sore  stricken  by  some  unexpected  calamity. 
Even  her  voice  was  faint  and  broken. 

"Father  Adrian  is  a  visitor  here  only — an  unex- 
pected one — like  yourself." 


156  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"Why  is  he  here?"  Adrea  asked  slowly.  "Has  he 
come  to  see  us  again  ?  What  does  he  want?  " 

Father  Adrian  turned  towards  her,  grave  and  severe. 
"I  have  come  to  see  Madame  de  Merteuill.  I  bring  her 
a  message  from  an  old  man  whom,  by  her  absence,  she 
is  wronging.  You  I  did  not  expect  to  find  here, — and 
thus." 

She  made  no  answer.  The  priest  drew  a  little 
nearer  to  her,  and  his  thin,  ascetic  face  seemed  sud- 
denly ablaze  with  scorn  and  anger. 

"Child!  your  destiny  is  surely  to  bring  sorrow  upon 
all  those  who  would  watch  over  you,  and  shape  your 
life  aright.  Where  you  have  been  living,  and  how, 
since  your  flight,  I  do  not  know.  You  have  hidden 
yourself  well!  You  have  shown  more  than  the  ordin- 
ary selfishness  of  childhood !  You  have  thought  noth- 
ing of  those  who  may  have  troubled  for  you!  I  do  not 
ask  for  your  confidence.  This  is  enough  for  rne :  I 
find  you  here  in  his  arms — his  of  all  men  in  the 
world!  False  to  your  Church;  false  to  your  sex; 
false  to  your  father's  memory!  Shameless!" 

She  did  not  flinch  from  before  him.  She  looked  him 
in  the  face,  coldly  and  without  fear. 

"  You  are  a  priest,  and  you  do  not  understand.  Be 
so  good  as  to  remember  that  I  am  no  longer  now  in 
your  power  or  under  your  authority.  You  cannot 


"A  NOISOME  SHADOW  CAST"  157 

threaten  to  make  me  a  nun  any  longer.  Remem- 
ber that  I  am  outside  your  life  now,  and  outside  your 
religion." 

"Toucan  be  brought  back,"  he  said  calmly.  "I 
have  powers." 

"  Powers  which  I  defy.  Your  religion  is  a  cold,  dry 
farce,  and  I  hate  it.  You  cannot  frighten  me; you  can- 
not alarm  me  in  the  least.  You  can  do  ugly  things,  I 
know,  in  the  name  of  your  Church;  and  if  you  had 
me  back  at  the  convent,  or  on  that  awful  island,  I 
should  be  frightened  at  you.  Here,  I  am  not.' 

Instinctively  she  glanced  toward  Paul.  Already  in 
her  thoughts,  he  was  assuming  the  protector.  He 
would  not  suffer  harm  to  come  to  her.  He  was  strong 
and  rich  and  powerful.  The  horror  of  days  gone  by 
had  already  grown  faint  with  her  ;  it  was  little  more 
than  memory.  It  was  gone,  and  could  not  come  again. 

"  I  have  not  come  here  to  talk  with  you,  child,"  he 
answered  quietly.  "My  errand  has  been  with  Madame 
de  Merteuill,  and  it  is  accomplished,  I  go  now.  Paul 
de  Vaux,  our  ways  lie  together  for  a  mile  or  more,  and 
I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you.  Let  us  go." 

Paul  was  slowly  recovering  from  a  state  of  mental 
stupor,  and,  with  his  discovery,  something  of  the  glam- 
our of  his  late  intoxication  was  passing  away.  He  had 
no  regret,  there  was  nothing  which  he  would  have 


158  A  MONK  OF  CRTTTA 

recalled ;  but  his  eyes  were  stronger  to  pierce  the 
mists,  and  he  was  able  to  bring  the  weight  of  imper- 
sonal thought  to  bear  upon  all  that  had  passed  between 
Adrea  and  himself.  Wheresoever  it  might  lead,  there 
was  a  tie  between  them  now  which  could  not  be  lightly 
severed. 

"It  is  time  I  went,"  Paul  answered.  "Adrea,  I 
will  come  and  see  you  to-morrow." 

She  looked  at  the  priest,  suspicious  and  troubled. 
"What  does  he  want  with  you,  Paul?"  she  whispered. 
"Don't  go  with  him!" 

"I  must!"  he  answered  sadly.  "He  has  something 
to  say  to  me  which  I  wish  to  hear.  I  will  come  and 
see  you  to-morrow." 

"If  you  must ,  then,  until  to-morrow.     But,  Paul!  " 

She  drew  him  on  one  side.  "Beware  of  him!  Oh! 
beware  of  him ! "  she  said  quickly,  her  eyes  full  of  fear. 
" He  is  a  fanatic,  a  Jesuit.  Don't  trust  him!  Have 
little  to  say  to  him.  Hush!  don't  answer  me!  He  ia 
watching.  Good-night,  beloved!  my  beloved!" 


"IF  LOVE  YOV  CHOOSE"  159 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  IF  LOVE  YOU  CHOOSE,  THEN  LOVE  SHALL  BE  YOUK  RUIN" 

PAUL  and  his  companion  walked  down  the  avenue  in 
silence,  and  turned  into  the  narrow,  stony  road  which 
wound  across  the  moor.  The  storm  was  over,  and  the 
rain  had  ceased.  Above  them,  only  faintly  visible,  as 
though  seen  through  a  canopy  of  delicate  lace,  the 
stars  were  shining  in  a  cloudless  sky  through  the 
wreaths  of  faint  grey  mist.  Far  off,  the  sound  of  the 
sea  came  rolling  across  the  moor  to  their  ears,  now 
loud  and  threatening  as  it  beat  against  the  iron  cliffs 
and  thundered  up  the  coombs,  now  striking  a  shriller 
note  as  the  huge  waves,  ever  beaten  off,  retreated, 
dragging  beach  and  shingle  with  them.  It  had  been 
an  ocean  gale,  and  the  very  air  was  salt  and  brackish 
with  flavours  of  the  sea.  Here  and  there  great  piles 
of  seaweed  had  been  carried  in  a  heterogeneous  mass 
to  their  feet,  and  the  ground  beneath  them  was  soft 
and  sandy.  But  the  storm  had  died  away  as  suddenly 
as  it  had  come.  The  tall,  stark  pine  trees,  which  a 


160  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

few  hours  ago  had  been  bending  like  whips  before  the 
rushing  wind,  stood  now  stiff  and  stark  against  the 
wan  sky.  There  was  not  even  motion  enough  in  the 
air  to  clear  away  the  white  mists  which  hung  around. 
Only  the  troubled  sea  remained  to  mark  the  passage  of 
the  storm. 

Paul  was  in  no  mood  for  talking.  He  recognised 
the  fact  that  what  had  happened  to  him  that  evening 
must,  to  a  certain  extent,  colour  his  whole  life.  He 
wanted  to  think  it  over  quietly,  now  that  he  was  away 
from  the  influence  of  Adrea's  passionately  beautiful 
face  and  pleading  eyes.  He  had  an  inward  sense  of 
great  disappointment  in  himself,  and  he  was  anxious 
to  see  how  far  this  was  justified.  He  was  prepared 
for  a  rigid  self-examination,  and  he  was  impatient  to 
begin  upon  it.  But,  while  he  was  still  upon  the  thresh- 
old of  his  meditations,  his  companion's  voice  sounded 
in  his  ear. 

"  Paul  de  Vaux,  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  you." 

Paul  awoke  with  a  start.  "Certainly!"  he  said 
gravely.  "I  am  ready." 

Father  Adrian  continued,  speaking  slowly  and  keep- 
ing his  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  Paul;  "Only  a  few 
nights  ago  we  met  amongst  the  ruins  of  your  old 
Abbey.  You  will  remember  that  I  spoke  to  you  of 
your  father's  last  hours,  of  a  strange  story  confided  to 


"If  LOVE  YOU  CHOOSE  "  161 

my  keeping — a  story  of  sin  and  of  sorrow — a  story 
casting  its  shadow  far  into  the  future.  You  remember 
this?" 

"Perfectly!" 

"At  first  you  seemed  to  consider  that  this  story, 
told  to  me  on  his  deathbed  by  a  man  who  was  at  least 
repentant,  should  be  held  sacred — sacred  to  me  as  a 
priest  of  the  Holy  Church,  and  sacred  to  you  as  his 
son.  Yet,  as  you  saw  afterwards,  it  was  not  so.  The 
confession  was  made  to  me  as  a  man ;  and  withal  it  was 
made  by  one  outside  the  pale  of  any  religion  whatever. 
It  was  mine  to  do  as  I  chose  with!  It  is  mine  now! " 

"  If  it  is  anything  which  concerns  me,  or  the  honour 
of  my  family,  you  should  tell  me.  If  it  involves 
wrongs  which  should  be  righted,  or  in  any  way  con- 
cerns the  future,  you  should  tell  me.  You  must  have 
come  for  that  purpose!  You  must  mean  to  eventually, 
or  why  should  you  have  found  your  way  to  this  out-of- 
the-way  corner  of  the  world.  Let  me  hear  it  now, 
Father  Adrian ! " 

"  It  will  darken  your  life! " 

"  I  do  not  believe  it!  At  any  rate  I  will  judge  for 
myself.  Let  me  hear  it! " 

The  priest  looked  away  into  the  darkness,  and  his 
voice  was  low  and  hoarse.  "  You  do  not  know  what 
you  ask!  "  he  said.  "  No,  I  shall  not  tell  you  yet.  It 


162  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

is  for  your  own  sake!     Sometimes  I  think  that  I  will 
go  away  and  never  tell  you." 

"Why  not?  You  came  here  for  no  other  reason." 
Father  Adrian  shook  his  head.  "  I  did  not  come  to 
tell  you.  It  was  your  home  I  came  to  see.  Many  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago  Vaux  Abbey  was  a  monastery,  sacred 
to  the  saint  whose  name  I  unworthily  bear.  My  visit 
here  was  half  a  pilgrimage!  But,"  he  went  on,  his 
brows  contracting,  and  his  eyes  gleaming  fire,  "  since 
I  came,  I  have  been  perilously  near  striking  the  blow 
which  I  have  power  to  strike.  You  bear  a  name  which 
for  centuries  was  foremost  in  the  history  of  our  sacred 
Church.  For  generation  after  generation  the  De  Vauxs 
were  good  Catholics  and  the  benefactors  of  their 
Church.  Your  chapel  was  richly  adorned,  and  five 
priests  dwelt  here  always  with  old  Sir  Roland  de  Vaux. 
And  now,  where  is  your  chapel,  once  the  most  beauti- 
ful in  England;  it  is  a  pile  of  ruins,  like  your  faith! 
I  wander  round  in  your  villages.  Your  tenants  have 
gone  the  way  of  their  lord.  Roman  Catholicism  is  a 
dying  power.  Hideous  chapels  have  sprung  up  in  all 
your  districts!  The  true  faith  is  neglected!  And  who 
is  to  blame  for  it  all  ?  Your  recreant  family.  You, 
who  should  have  been  the  most  zealous  upholders  of 
religion,  have  drifted  down  the  stream  of  fashion,  nerve- 
less and  indifferent  Oh!  it  is  heresy,  rank  heresy,  to 


"IF  LO  VB  YOU  VHOOSE"  168 

think  of  a  De  Yaux,  such  as  you,  dwelling  indifferent 
amongst  the  mighty  associations  of  your  name  and 
home!  I  wander  about  amongst  those  magnificent 
ruins  of  yours,  aesthetically  beautiful,  but  nevertheless 
a  living,  burning  reproach,  and  I  ask  myself  whether 
I  do  well  in  holding  my  peace.  I  cannot  tell!  I  can- 
not tell!" 

Paul  was  moved  in  spite  of  himself  by  the  vehem- 
ence of  his  companion's  words.  The  horrors  of  that 
deathbed  scene  at  Cruta  had  never  grown  dim  to  him. 
He  had  always  felt  that  his  father  had  only  decided  to 
keep  something  back  from  him  in  those  last  moments, 
after  a  bitter  struggle ;  and  he  was  now  quite  sure  that 
whatever  it  might  have  been,  the  secret  had  been  con- 
fided to  this  priest. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he  said.  "  What- 
ever this  mystery  may  be  to  which  you  are  constantly 
alluding,  I  am  of  course  ignorant.  But  you  seem  to 
have  some  understanding  with  the  two  women  whom 
we  have  left  this  evening.  I  want  to  know  whether 
Adrea  is  concerned  in  it." 

"She  is  not!" 

"  Nor  Madame  de  Merteuill  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you!  " 

They  were  in  the  Abbey  grounds,  close  to  the  ruins, 
and  the  moorland  lay  behind  them,  with  its  floating 


164  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 

mists  and  vague  obscurity.  Here  the  sky  was  soft  and 
clear,  and  every  pillar  amongst  the  ruins  stood  out 
against  the  empty  background  of  sea  and  sky.  Father 
Adrian  paused. 

"I  will  come  no  further,"  he  said.  "  I  am  a  saner 
man  away  from  your  despoiled  home.  There  is  just  a 
last  word  which  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

Paul  stood  still,  and  listened. 

"I have  borne  much,"  Father  Adrian  said,  "  much 
tempting  and  many  impulses;  but  I  have  zealously  put 
a  watch  upon  my  tongue,  and  I  have  spared  you.  For 
the  future,  your  happiness — nay,  your  future  itself— 
is  in  your  own  hands.  I  saw  your  father  kill  the  only 
relative  Adrea  had  in  this  world.  We  saw  the  deed 
done,  though  we  have  both  held  our  peace  concerning 
it.  Paul  de  Vaux,  I  am  inclined  to  spare  you  a  great 
blow  which  it  is  in  my  power  to  strike.  I  am  inclined 
to  spare  you,  but  I  make  one  hard  and  fast  condition. 
Adrea  is  not  for  you!  She  must  be  neither  your  wife, 
nor  your  friend,  nor  your  ward!  There  must  be  no 
dealings,  no  knowledge  between  yoi.  the  one  of  the 
other!  There  is  blood  between  you;  it  can  never  be 
wiped  out!  The  stain  is  forever.  Lift  up  your  hand 
to  heaven,  and  swear  that  you  will  never  willingly  look 
upon  her  face  again,  or,  as  God  is  my  master,  I  will 
bring  upon  your  name,  and  your  family,  and  you,  swift 
and  everlasting  shame!" 


"IF  LOVE  YOU  CHOOSE"  165 

His  hand  fell  to  his  side,  and  his  voice,  which  had 
been  vibrating  with  passion,  died  away  in  a  little,  sup- 
pressed sob.  Paul  looked  at  him  steadily.  The  per- 
spiration was  standing  out  upon  his  forehead  in  great 
beads,  and  his  eyes  were  dry  and  brilliant.  The  man 
was  shaken  to  the  very  core,  and  in  the  strange  up- 
heaval of  passion  he  had  altogether  lost  his  sacerdo- 
tality.  It  was  the  man  who  had  spoken,  the  man, 
passionate  and  sensuous,  deeply  moved  through  every 
chord  of  his  being.  The  "  priest  "  had  fallen  away 
from  him,  the  remembrance  of  it  seemed  almost  gro- 
tesque. Paul,  too,  had  caught  much  of  the  passionate 
excitement  of  the  moment. 

"Time!  "  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  must  have  time.  A 
few  days  only.  I  ask  no  questions!  Only  how  long  ?" 

"A  week!  "  the  priest  answered.  "  A  week  to-night 
we  meet  here! " 


166  A  MONK  OF  (JRUTA 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

"SOFTLY   GLIMMERING   THROUGH    THE   LAURELS   AT 
THE    QUIET    EVEN  FALL  " 

"  Do  you  know  who  has  taken  Major  Harcourt's  cot- 
tage, Mr.  de  Vaux?  "  Lady  May  asked. 

Paul  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  sat  quite  still  in 
his  saddle,  and  gazed  across  the  moor,  with  his  hand 
shading  his  eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  May,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  that  I  heard  the  dogs.  You  asked  me 

"About  Major  Harcourt's  cottage.  Do  you  know 
who  has  taken  it?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  the  name.  It  is  a  foreign  lady, 
and  her  step-daughter,  I  believe.  There  is  a  clergy- 
man— or  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  rather — too;  but  he 
may  be  only  a  visitor." 

"Indeed!" 

The  monosyllable  was  expressive.  Paul  glanced  at 
his  companion  with  slightly  arched  eyebrows.  What 
had  she  heard?  Something,  evidently,  for  there  h<-u] 
been  a  coolness  in  her  manner  all  the  morning,  and  her 


''AT  THE  QUIET  EVENFALL"  167 

clear  grey  eyes  were  resting  now  upon  the  many  gables 
of  the  cottage  just  below  them,  with  distinct  disap- 
proval. Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  Paul  remembered 
that  a  dogcart  from  the  Castle  had  whirled  past  him  as 
he  had  turned  out  of  the  drive  last  night.  Doubtless 
he  had  been  seen  and  recognised.  Well!  after  all, 
what  did  it  matter?  The  time  when  he  had  meant  to 
ask  Lady  May  to  be  his  wife  seemed  very  far  back  in 
the  past  now.  Between  that  part  of  his  life  and  now, 
there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  Last  night  had  altered 
everything ! 

He  had  certainly  not  meant  to  hunt  that  morning, 
but  it  had  been  forced  upon  him.  Quite  early,  Rey- 
nolds had  come  to  his  room  to  inquire  whether  he 
should  provide  breakfast  for  thirty  or  fifty,  and  had 
reminded  him  that  the  meet  was  in  front  of  the  Abbey. 
So,  against  his  will,  Paul  had  been  compelled  to  enter- 
tain the  hunt  and  join  in  it  himself.  Lady  May  had 
been  specially  invited  to  breakfast,  but  she  had  not 
come,  and  Paul  had  only  just  seen  her  for  the  first  time 
at  the  cover  side.  She  had  greeted  him  coldly;  and 
though  they  had  somehow  taken  up  a  position  a  little 
apart  from  the  others,  very  few  words  had  passed  be- 
tween them.  Her  frank,  delicate  face  was  clouded,  and 
her  manner  was  reserved. 

"  I  believe  my  brother  knows  who  they  are,"   she 


168  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

continued,  after  a  short  silence.     "He  saw  them  at  the 
station." 

Paul  bit  his  lip,  and  turned  away.  The  mystery  of 
Lady  May's  manner  was  explained  now. 

"Did  he  tell  you,  then?" 

Lady  May  toyed  with  her  whip,  and  then  looked 
Paul  straight  in  the  face.  "  Yes!  he  told  me  the  name 
of  the  younger  one.  It  is  Adrea  Kiros,  the  dancing 
girl.  Mr.  de  Vaux,  may  I  ask  you  a  question?  " 

"Certainly!" 

Lady  May  looked  straight  between  her  horse's  ears, 
and  a  slight  flush  stole  into  her  cheeks.  "  You  must 
not  think  that  I  was  listening;  it  was  not  so  at  all. 
But  last  night,  as  I  was  passing  the  billiard-room,  I 
heard  my  brother  and  Captain  Mortimer  talking.  They 
were  coupling  your  name  with  this — Miss  Adrea  Kiros. 
They  spoke  of  her  coming  down  here  as  though  you 
must  have  known  something  of  it.  They  were  blaming 
you,  as  though  you  were  responsible  for  her  coming. 
We  have  b^Sn  friends,  Mr.  de  Vaux;  and  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  our  friendship  has  been  very  pleasant. 
But  if  there  is  any  truth  in  what  they  said — well,  you 
can  guess  the  rest.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  yourself;  I 
am  never  content  to  accept  hearsay  evidence  against 
my  friends.  I  prefer  to  be  unconventional,  as  you  see. 
Please  tell  me!" 


"A  T  THE  Q  VIET  E  VENFALL  "  169 

"  Will  you  put  your  question  a  little  more  definitely, 
Lady  May  ?  "  Paul  asked  slowly. 

"Certainly!  Has  that  young  person  come  here  at 
your  instigation  ?  Did  you  arrange  for  her  to  come 
here?" 

"  I  did  not!  No  one  could  have  been  more  surprised 
to  see  her  than  I  was." 

Lady  May  was  growing  very  stiff.  She  sat  up  in  her 
saddle,  and  drew  the  reins  through  her  ringers.  "  You 
know  her?" 

"I  do!" 

"You  visited  her  in  London  ?" 

"I  did!" 

"You  were  at  the  cottage  last  evening  ?" 

"  I  was  !     I  lost  my  way,  and " 

Lady  May  touched  her  horse  with  her  spur.  "Thank 
you,  Mr.  de  Vaux  ! "  she  said  haughtily.  "  I  will  not 
trouble  you  any  more.  Please  don't  follow  me  ! " 

Paul  watched  her  ride  down  the  hillside  and  join 
one  of  the  little  groups  dotted  about  outside  the  cover- 
side,  with  a  curious  sense  of  unreality.  After  a  while 
he  broke  into  a  little  laugh,  and,  shaking  his  reins,  lit 
a  cigar.  This  was  a  new  character  for  him  altogether. 
He  knew  himself  that  no  man  had  kept  his  life  more 
blameless  than  he !  If  anything,  he  felt  sometimes 
that  he  had  erred  upon  the  other  side  in  thinking  and 


170  A  MONK  OP  CRUTA 

speaking  too  hastily  of  those  who  had  been  less  circum- 
spect. And  now,  it  had  come  to  this.  The  woman 
whose  good  opinion  he  had  always  valued  next  to  his 
mother's  had  deliberately  accused  him  of  what  must 
have  seemed  to  her  a  flagrant  outrage  on  decency.  Her 
words  were  still  ringing  in  his  ears  :  "Please  don't 
follow  me."  Lady  May  had  said  that  to  him  ;  it  was  a 
little  hard  to  realize. 

A  commotion  around  the  cover  below  was  a  welcome 
diversion  to  him  just  then.  A  fox  had  got  clear  away, 
and  hounds  were  in  full  cry.  Paul  pressed  his  hat 
down,  and  settled  into  his  saddle  with  a  grim  smile. 
The  physical  excitement  was  just  what  he  wanted,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  he  was  leading  the  field,  with  only 
the  master  by  his  side,  and  Captain  Westover  a  few 
yards  behind. 

At  the  first  check,  Captain  Westover  rode  up  to  him. 
"I  want  just  a  word  or  two  with  you,  De  Vaux  !  "  he 
said,  drawing  him  on  one  side. 

Paul  drew  himself  up  in  his  saddle,  and  sat  there 
glum  and  unbending.  "  I  am  at  your  service,"  he 
answered.  "  I  have  had  the  pleasure  already  of  a  short 
conversation  with  your  sister  this  morning." 

Captain  Westover  nodded.  "I  suppose  so.  I  want 
to  beg  your  pardon  first  for  what  I  am  going  to  say, 
De  Vaux.  If  I  make  an  ass  of  myself,  don't  scruple 


"AT  THE  QUIET  EVENFALL"  171 

to  say  so  !  But  I  want  to  ask  you  this  !  Why,  in 
thunder,  did  you  let  Adrea  what's-her-name,  the  danc- 
ing girl,  come  down  here  ?" 

"  It  was  no  business  of  mine  !  I  did  not  know  that 
she  was  coming  !  " 

Captain  Westover  stroked  his  moustache  and  looked 
puzzled.  "Look  here,  old  man,"  he  said  slowly,  "you 
go  to  see  her  in  London,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  !  " 

"  Just  so  !  And  you  were  down  at  the  cottage  last 
night,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"I  was!" 

"  Well  !  hang  it  all,  then  you  must  have  known 
something  about  her  coming,  you  know  !  It  can't  be 
just  a  coincidence.  Bevan  &  Bevan  are  my  solicitors, 
and  by  the  purest  accident,  one  day  I  learned  that  Miss 
Adrea  enjoys  a  settlement  of  a  thousand  a  year  from 
you.  They  didn't  tell  me,  of  course.  I  happened  to 
catch  sight  of  your  check  on  the  table  one  day,  and 
overheard  old  Sam  Bevan  give  some  instructions  to  a 
clerk.  Sorry,  but  I  couldn't  help  it  !  You're  the  first 
person  I've  breathed  it  to." 

"I  am  her  guardian  !"  Paul  exclaimed  angrily. 

Captain  Westover  whistled.  "  You  may  call  it  what 
you  like,  old  fellow  !  I  don't  mind,  I  can  assure  you  ! 
You  don't  seem  inclined  to  listen  to  any  advice,  so  I 


172  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

won't  offer  any  more.  But  ff  you'll  forgive  my  saying 
so,  you're  doing  a  d d  silly  thing.  Good-morning. 

On  the  whole,  Paul  did  not  enjoy  his  day's  hunting; 
and  before  it  was  all  over,  he  found  himself  once  more 
in  an  embarrassing  situation.  For  as  he  rode  past  the 
gates  of  the  cottage,  on  his  way  home,  Adrea  was 
there,  breathless  and  laughing,  with  her  dusky  hair 
waving  loosely  around  her  shapely  head. 

"  I  saw  you  coming,"  she  said,  a  little  shyly,  "  and 
I  was  afraid  that  you  would  not  stop,  so  I  ran  out  as 
fast  as  I  could.  It  was  silly  of  me  !  You  were  com- 
ing in,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"I  think  not  !"  Paul  answered  gravely.  "Look 
how  thick  in  mud  I  am,  and  how  tired  my  horse 
looks!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  pleading  eyes  and  parted 
lips.  "  Do  come  !  "  she  said.  "  I  have  been  expect- 
ing you  all  day  ! " 

She  held  the  gate  open,  and  stood  looking  up  at  him, 
a  curiously  picturesque-looking  figure  in  the  grey  twi- 
light. Her  gown  was  like  no  other  woman's  ;  it  was 
something  between  a  Greek  robe  and  a  tea-gown,  of  a 
dull  orange  hue,  and  her  dusky  hair  was  tied  up  with 
a  bow  of  ribbon  of  the  same  colour.  Everything  about 
her  was  strange  ;  even  the  faint  perfume  which  hung 
about  her  clothes,  and  which  brought  him  sudden, 


"A  T  TEE  Q  U1B  T  E  VENFALL  "  173 

swift  memories  of  that  moment  when  she  had  lain  in 
his  arms,  and  his  lips  had  met  hers.  Paul  felt  the 
colour  steal  into  his  pale  cheeks  as  he  leaped  to  the 
ground,  and  passed  his  arm  through  his  horse's  bridle. 

"  I  will  come,  car  a  mia  !  "  he  said  softly. 

She  clasped  her  hands  through  his  other  arm,  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear,  as  they  turned  up  the 
avenue  together.  Just  then  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
in  the  road  made  them  both  turn  round.  Captain 
Westover  and  Lady  May  were  riding  by  together,  with 
their  eyes  fixed  upon  Paul  and  his  companion. 


174  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"BLOOD  CALLS  ALOUD  FOB  BLOOD  AND  NOT  FOB  HANDS 
ENTWINED  " 

IT  was  with  a  strange  conflict  of  feelings  that  Paul, 
with  Adrea  by  his  side,  passed  across  the  square,  low 
hall  of  the  cottage,  plentifully  decorated  with  stags' 
heads  and  other  sporting  trophies,  and  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  was  a  room  which  had  been  built,  too,  of 
quaint  shape,  made  up  of  nooks  and  corners  and  re- 
cesses, and  with  dark  oak  beams  stretching  right  across 
the  ceiling.  The  furniture  was  all  old-fashioned,  and 
of  different  periods ;  but  the  general  effect  was  har- 
monious, though  a  trifle  shabby.  Paul  knew  it  well ! 
Many  an  evening  he  had  come  in  to  tea  there,  after  a 
cigar  and  a  chat  with  the  old  Major,  and  lounged  in 
that  low  chair  by  Mrs.  Harcourt's  side.  But  it  scarcely 
seemed  like  the  same  room  to  him  now.  The  Major 
and  his  wife  had  been  old-fashioned  people,  and  their 
personality,  and  talk,  and  surroundings,  had  created  a 
sort  of  atmosphere  which  Paul  had  grown  almost  to 
associate  with  the  place.  He  missed  it  directly  he  en- 


"BLOOD  GALLS  ALOUD  FOR  BLOOD"  175 

tered  the  room.  What  it  was  that  had  worked  the 
change  it  was  hard  to  tell.  Adrea  had  been  far  too 
charmed  with  its  quaintness  to  seriously  alter  anything. 
A  little  stiffness  in  the  arrangement  of  the  furniture 
had  been  corrected,  and  the  few  antimacassars  care- 
fully removed;  otherwise  nothing  had  been  changed. 
The  great  bowls  of  yellow  roses  and  chrysanthemums, 
and  the  piles  of  modern  books  and  music  lying  about, 
might  have  been  partly  responsible  for  it;  and  the 
faint  perfume  which  he  had  grown  to  associate  alto- 
gether with  Adrea,  and  which  seemed  wafted  into  the 
air  as  she  gathered  up  her  skirts  on  her  way  into  the 
room,  had  a  foreign  flavour  in  it.  But,  after  all,  it  was 
Adrea  herself  who  changed  the  atmosphere  so  com- 
pletely. She  was  so  different  from  other  women  in  her 
strange  Eastern  beauty  and  the  leopard-like  grace  of 
her  movements  that  she  could  not  fail  to  create  an 
atmosphere  around  her.  Yes!  it  was  she  herself  who 
had  worked  the  change;  just  as  she  had  worked  so 
wonderful  a  change  in  him,  Paul  told  himself. 

At  first  they  had  thought  that  the  room  was  empty  \ 
and  Adrea,  who  had  entered  a  little  in  advance,  turned 
round  to  Paul  and  held  out  her  hands  with  a  sudden 
sweeping  gesture  of  invitation.  Even  in  that  moment, 
as  he  moved  towards  her,  Paul  had  time  to  feel  a  quick 
glow  of  admiration  at  the  artistic  elegance  of  her  pose 


176  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

and  colouring.  Her  proud,  dusky  face  and  brilliant 
eyes  found  a  perfect  background  in  the  deep  orange  of 
her  loose  gown,  and  the  velvet  twined  amongst  her 
dark  hair.  Her  arms,  stretched  out  towards  him,  were 
half  bare,  where  the  lace  had  fallen  back,  and  a  world 
o;  passionate  love  and  invitation  was  glowing  in  her 
face  as  she  leaned  slightly  towards  him,  as  if  impa- 
tient of  his  slow  advance.  But  before  his  hands  had 
touched  hers,  a  voice  from  the  further  end  of  the  room 
had  broken  in  upon  that  eloquent  silence. 

"  Adrea!  you  did  not  see  me!  " 

They  stood  for  a  moment  as  though  paralysed ;  then 
Adrea  turned  slowly  round  with  darkening  face.  "  I 
did  not!  I  thought  that  you  were  upstairs! " 

She  glided  out  of  the  shadows,  a  slim,  tall  figure 
dressed  with  curious  simplicity,  and  with  white,  blood- 
less face.  "  I  am  going  away,"  she  said,  coming  quite 
close  to  them,  and  fixing  her  full,  deep  eyes  upon 
Adrea;  "I  am  going  away  at  once.  But,  Adrea,  there 
is  one  word — just  one  word — " 

"Say  it!"  Adrea  interrupted  impatiently. 

She  glanced  at  Paul.  He  made  a  movement  as  though 
to  quit  the  room,  but  Adrea  prevented  him.  "You 
need  not  go! "  she  said.  "Anything  that  is  to  be  said 
can  be  said  to  you  as  well  as  to  me.  I  prefer  to  have 
no  secrets!  You  were  going  to  say  something  to  me," 
she  added,  turning  to  her  companion. 


"BLOOD  CALLS  ALOUD  FOR  BLOOD"  1TT 

"Yes!  I  have  no  objection  to  say  it  before  Mr.  de 
Vaux.  I  simply  want  to  ask  you  whether  you  consider 
him  a  proper  visitor  in  this  house  ?  " 

"I  choose  it!    I  am  mistress  here! " 

For  a  moment  an  angry  reply  seemed  to  quiver  upon 
the  woman's  lips,  but  it  died  away. 

"You  are  right!  I  thank  you  for  reminding  me  of 
it,"  she  said  quietly.  "And  yet,  Adrea,  hear  me!  You 
are  doing  an  evil  thing !  Was  your  father's  murder  so 
light  a  thing  to  you  that  you  can  join  hands  with  his 
murderer's  son  ?  Remember  that  day !  Think  of  your 
father  lying  across  that  chamber  floor,  stricken  dead  in 
a  single  moment  by  Martin  de  Vaux — by  his  father!  It 
not  seemly  that  you  two  should  stand  there,  hand  in 
hand!  It  is  not  seemly  for  you  to  be  under  the  same 
roof!  It  is  horrible]  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Adrea  threw 
open  the  door,  and  pointed  to  it. 

"  Go! "  she  ordered  coldly.  "  You  have  had  your 
say,  and  that  is  my  answer!  You  were  my  father's 
friend;  I  believe  that  he  loved  you!  It  was  for  his 
sake  that  I  offered  you  shelter!  It  was  for  his  sake 
that  I  brought  you  here !  But,  remember  this :  if  you 
wish  to  stay  with  me,  let  me  never  hear  another  word 
from  you  on  this  subject!  " 

She  went  out  silently.     Adreq  closed  the  door,  and 


178  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

turned  round  with  all  the  hardness  fading  swiftly  out 
of  her  features.  A  moment  before  there  had  been  a 
look  of  the  tigress  in  her  eyes;  and  Paul,  watching 
her,  had  shuddered.  It  was  gone  now.  She  came 
close  up  to  Paul,  and  led  him  to  a  chair. 

"  "Was  I  very  undignified  ?  "  she  said,  laughing.  "  I 
am  afraid  I  was.  I  was  very  angry!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  You  were  not  undignified," 
he  said,  "but  you  were  very  severe.  I  think  that  she 
will  go  away." 

Adrea's  face  hardened  again.  "I  do  not  care!  I 
would  hate  the  dearest  friend  I  had  on  earth  who  tried 
to  come  between  us.  Oh !  Paul,  Paul !  don't  you  feel 
as  I  do;  as  though  the  world  were  empty,  and  my  mind 
swept  bare  of  memories, — as  though  there  were  no 
background  to  it  all,  nothing  save  you  and  I,  and  our 
love?" 

Paul  drew  her  to  him.  For  him,  at  that  moment, 
there  was  no  past  nor  any  future.  The  dreamy  abandon 
of  her  manner  seemed  to  have  raised  an  echo  within 
him. 

"Listen!  What  is  that?"  Adrea  exclaimed  sud- 
denly. 

There  was  the  ring  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  avenue, 
and  inwnediately  afterwards  a  loud  peal  at  the  bell. 
Paul  and  Adrea  looked  at  one  another  breathlessly. 
Who  could  it  be? 


"BLOOD  CALLS  ALOUD  FOR  BLOOD  "  119 

The  outer  door  was  opened  and  closed,  and  then 
quick  steps  passed  across  the  hall.  The  drawing-room 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  Arthur  de  Vaux,  pale  and 
splashed  with  mud  from  head  to  foot,  stood  upon  the 
threshold. 


J80  A  MONK  OF  CBUTA 


CHAPTEE    XX 

"  THE  NEW,  STRONG  WINE  OF  LOVE" 

THE  situation,  although  it  was  only  a  brief  one,  was 
for  a  moment  possessed  of  a  singularly  dramatic  force. 
The  grouping  and  the  colouring  in  that  dimly  lit 
drawing-room  were  all  that  an  artist  could  desire,  and 
the  facial  expressions  bordered  upon  the  tragic.  Of  all 
men  in  the  world,  his  brother  was  the  last  whom  of 
his  own  choosing  Paul  would  have  wished  to  see. 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Arthur,  breathless  through 
his  hasty  entrance,  could  only  stand  there  upon  the 
threshold,  his  face  white  to  the  lips,  and  his  eyes  flash- 
ing with  passionate  anger  and  dismay.  To  him  the 
situation  was  more  than  painful ;  it  was  horrible.  To 
have  believed  ill  of  Paul  from  hearsay  would  have 
been  impossible;  his  confidence  in  his  elder  brother 
had  been  unbounded.  He  had  always  looked  up  to 
him  as  the  mirror  of  everything  that  was  honorable 
and  chivalrous.  Even  now,  perhaps  there  might  be 
some  explanation — some  partial  explanation,  at  any 
rate.  Paul  was  standing  back  amongst  the  shadows, 


"THE  NEW,  STRONO  WINE  OF  LOVE"          181 

and  his  face  was  only  barely  visible.  Doubtless  it  was 
only  surprise  which  held  him  silent.  In  a  moment  he 
would  speak,  and  explain  everything.  It  was  this 
thought  which  loosened  Arthur's  tongue. 

"  Paul,"  he  cried,  and  stepping  forward  into  the 
room,  "  and  Adrea !  You  here,  and  together  !  Tell 
me  what  it  meams  !  I  have  a  right  to  know.  I  will 
know." 

He  had  determined  to  be  cool,  to  bear  himself  like  a 
man,  but  their  silence  maddened  him.  Adrea,  it  is 
true,  showed  no  signs  of  guilt  or  confusion  in  her  cold, 
questioning  face.  But  the  deceit,  if  deceit  there  had 
been,  was  not  hers.  It  was  Paul  who  was  responsible 
to  him,  and  it  was  Paul  who  should  have  spoken — Paul, 
who  stood  there  with  a  hidden  face,  a  silent,  immovable 
figure. 

"  Are  you  stricken  dumb?  "  he  cried  angrily.  "  You 
can  see  who  I  am,  can't  you,  Paul  ?  Speak  to  me  ! 
Tell  me  whether  there  is  any  truth  in  these  stories 
which  are  flying  about  the  county,  with  no  one  to  con- 
tradict them." 

What  might  have  been  the  tragedy  of  the  situation 
vanished  for  Paul  at  the  sound  of  his  brother's  words. 
After  all,  it  was  not  the  just  anger  of  a  deceived  man 
with  which  he  was  confronted,  but  the  empty  scream  of 
a  boy's  passion.  Arthur's  infatuation  had  but  skimmed 


182  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

the  surface  of  his  light  nature.  He  was  pricked,  not 
wounded.  Yet,  though  in  a  sense  this  realization 
brought  its  relief,  Paul  felt  humbled  into  the  dust.  He 
was  actually  conscious  of  his  own  humiliation.  So  far 
as  a  nature  such  as  his  could  be  conventional,  he  had 
become  so  in  deference  to  the  opinion  of  those  who 
looked  up  to  him  as  the  head  of  a  great  house,  and  of 
whom  much  was  to  be  expected,  both  socially  and  polit- 
ically. "What  must  become  of  that  opinion  now,  Ar- 
thur's words  too  plainly  foreshadowed. 

He  moved  forward  into  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  faced  his  brother.  There  was  only  a  small  table 
between  them. 

"  I  do  not  know  who  sent  you  here,  Arthur,"  he  said, 
"  or  what  reports  you  have  heard,  but  it  seems  to  me, 
that  any  explanation  you  may  wish  had  better  be  de- 
ferred until  our  return  home." 

Arthur  struck  the  table  violently  with  his  riding-whip, 
"I  will  not  wait!  "  he  cried."  Here  is  the  proper  place! 
I  have  been  deceived  and  cajoled  by — by — you,  Adrea, 
and  by  my  own  brother  !  It  is  shameful  !  You  hypo- 
crite, Paul!  You,  to  come  up  to  London,  and  sol- 
emnly lecture  me  about  a  dancing  girl.  You  d d 

hypocrite  ! " 

Before  his  passion,  Paul's  grave  and  steadfast  silence 
gained  an  added  dignity.  Adrea,  with  a  red  spot  burn- 
ing on  her  cheeks,  sailed  between  the  two. 


"THE  NEW,  STRONG  WINE  OF  LOVE"  183 

"  Arthur,  you  are  mad,"  she  said,  turning  suddenly 
upon  him,  with  her  eyes  afire.  "  Have  I  ever  deceived 
you?  Have  I  ever  pretended  to  care  for  you?  Bah, 
no  !  You  are  only  an  unformed,  hysterical  boy.  Be- 
fore, you  were  indifferent  to  me.  Now,  I  am  very 
quickly  growing  to  hate  you  !  Begone  !  Leave  this 
house!  " 

He  stood  quite  still,  white  and  trembling.  The  scorn 
of  her  words  had  fallen  like  ice  upon  his  heart.  Then 
he  turned,  and  groped  for  the  door,  as  though  there 
were  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

"I  suppose  you  are  quite  right,"  he  faltered  out. 
"  I  didn't  see  it  quite  the  same  way,  that's  all.  I  un- 
derstand now." 

The  door  opened  and  shut.  In  a  moment  or  two 
the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  were  heard  in  the  avenue, 
growing  rapidly  less  distinct  as  he  galloped  away  into 
the  darkness.  To  Paul  it  sounded  like  the  knell  of  his 
self-respect,  but  Adrea  felt  only  the  relief.  Her  eyes, 
full  of  soft  invitation,  sought  his ;  but  he  did  not  move. 
He  stood  there,  silent  and  motionless,  with  his  face 
turned  towards  the  window.  Those  dying  sounds 
meant  so  much  to  him, — so  much  that  she  could  never 
understand. 

The  consciousness  of  her  near  presence  suddenly 
disturbed  him.  He  turned  round.  Her  warm  breath 


184  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

was  upon  his  cheek,  and  her  white  arms  w«re  twined 
about  his  neck. 

"  Paul,"  she  whispered,  "  do  not  look  so  miserable, 
please!  Come  and  talk  to  me." 

Her  arms  tightened  around  him.  He  looked  down 
at  her  with  a  peculiar  helplessness.  Their  light  weight 
seemed  to  him  like  a  chain  of  iron  weighing  him  down.' 
down!  down! 

He  had  told  himself  that  he  had  come  to  bid  her 
farewell;  that  Father  Adrian's  words,  vague  though 
they  were,  yet  had  a  definite  meaning,  and  were  worthy 
of  his  regard.  But  at  that  moment  their  memory  was 
like  a  dying  echo  in  his  ears.  This  first  passion  of  his 
life  was  strong  upon  him,  and  everything  else  was 
weak.  The  future  was  suddenly  bounded  for  him  by 
a  pair  of  white,  clinging  arms,  and  a  dark,  beautiful 
face  pressed  close  to  his.  He  saw  no  more;  he  could 
see  no  further. 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  185 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"ADREA'S  DIABY" 

"  By  love  stalks  hate,  his  brother  and  his  mate." 

I  AM  scarcely  calm  enough  to  write!  Yet  I  must 
write !  My  heart  is  full ;  my  very  pulses  are  throbbing 
with  excitement!  What  is  it  that  has  happened?  It 
is  all  confused  in  my  mind.  Let  me  try  and  set  it 
down  clearly;  then  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  see  my 
way. 

Yesterday  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  being  was  all  too 
small  for  one  passion.  Now  it  holds  two!  The  one, 
perhaps,  intensifies  the  other.  That  is  possible,  for 
they  are  opposites,  and  one  has  grown  out  of  the  other. 
Now  I  cannot  tell  which  is  the  stronger,  the  love  or  the 
hate. 

I  love  one  man,  and  I  hate  another.  Perhaps  I 
should  say  I  love  one  man  because  I  hate  another. 
You,  my  dumb  confidant,  may  be  trusted  with  names, 
so  I  will  be  clearer  still.  I  love  Paul  de  Vaux,  and  I 
hate  Father  Adrian! 

Oh!  that  he  should  have,  dared!  that  he  should  have 


186  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

dared  to  speak  so  to  me!  If  only  Paul  had  been  there, 
he  should  have  beaten  him.  If  I  had  had  the  strength 
and  the  means,  I  would  have  killed  him  where  he  stood, 
and  silenced  those  thin,  cruel  lips  for  ever.  I  could 
have  stabbed  him  to  the  heart,  and  my  hand  would 
never  have  faltered. 

Let  me  try  to  recall  that  scene.  It  is  not  difficult. 
His  words  are  ringing  still  in  my  ears,  and  his  white, 
passionate  face  seems  to  follow  and  mock  me  wherever 
I  look.  I  see  it  out  there  in  the  white  moonlight,  and 
it  rises  up  from  the  dark  corners  of  the  room.  It 
haunts  me,  and  I  hate  it!  I  hate  him  as  a  woman  hates 
any  one  who  comes  between  her  and  the  man  she  loves! 

We  were  alone,  Paul  and  I;  at  least,  we  thought  so. 
I  had  heard  no  one  eater,  nor  had  he.  But  suddenly  a 
voice  rang  out  and  filled  the  room ;  a  fierce,  cruel  voice, 
GO  changed  and  hardened  with  passion  that  I  scarcely 
recognised  it.  But  when  we  sprang  up,  and  peered 
through  the  twilight  of  the  chamber  we  saw  him 
standing  close  to  us, — so  close  that  he  might  even 
have  heard  our  whispered  words  to  one  another. 

There  had  been  some  ceremony  at  the  monastery 
amongst  the  hills  where  most  of  his  time  here  is  spent, 
and  he  had  evidently  come  straight  from  there.  His 
flowing  black  robes  were  splashed  with  mud  and  torn 
by  brambles,  and  his  white  face  was  livid  with  exhaust- 


'  'A  DRRAS  LIAR  Y"  187 

ion  and  anger.  His  dark  eyes  burned  like  fire  in  their 
hollow  depths,  and  his  right  hand  was  raised  above  his 
head,  as  though  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  striking 
or  denouncing  us.  I  shall  not  forget  his  appearance 
while  I  live.  It  will  haunt  mo  to  my  dying  day. 

I  think  that  it  is  the  mystery  of  it  all  which  tortures 
me  so.  What  has  Paul  to  fear  from  him?  Whence 
comes  his  power?  What  evil  is  it  which  he  holds  sus- 
pended over  his  head?  There  is  only  one  that  I  can 
imagine.  Father  Adrian  must  hold  the  key  to  that 
awful  deathbed  scene  at  the  mouastry  of  Cruta.  As  I 
write  the  words,  my  hand  shakes,  my  heart  sickens 
with  the  horror  of  that  memory.  Well  have  I  cause  to 
shrink  from  all  thought  of  that  hideous  night; — I,  to 
whom  the  son  of  Martin  de  Yaux  has  become  the  dear- 
est amongst  men!  What  was  it  Paul  said  to  me?  "He 
knows  something  which  my  father  told  him  whilst  he 
lay  dying."  Is  it  that  knowledge  which  gives  him 
this  strange  power?  I  did  not  believe  in  it!  I  would 
not  have  believed  in  it!  But,  in  that  dreadful  moment, 
I  turned  to  Paul,  and  I  saw  his  face! 

A  volley  of  words  seemed  trembling  on  Father 
Adrian's  lips;  yet  he  did  not  speak.  We  waited  for 
the  storm  to  burst;  we  waited  till  I  could  bear  the 
silence  no  longer,  and  I  felt  that  if  it  was  not  broken  I 
should  go  mad.  So  I  drew  near  to  him,  and  spoke  a 


188  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

single  word  in  his  ear.  Then  I  glided  back  to  Paul's 
side. 

"Spy!" 

He  treated  the  insult  as  one  might  treat  the  bite  of 
an  insect  in  the  face  of  some  imminent  danger.  He 
did  not  reply  to  it;  he  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  it. 
His  eyes  traveled  over  me,  as  though  they  had  been 
sightless,  and  challenged  Paul's.  In  the  excitement 
of  the  moment,  his  words  sounded  tame,  and  almost 
meaningless. 

"This  is  your  answer,  then,  Paul  de  Vaux!  Let  it 
be  so!  I  accept  your  decision! " 

There  was  no  defiance  in  Paul's  answer.  His  man- 
ner was  quite  subdued.  I  think  that  both  his  words 
and  his  tone  surprised  me. 

"You  have  seen!     I  am  in  your  hands!" 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  troubled.  I  felt  that 
there  was  a  hidden  meaning  in  their  words  which  I 
could  not  understand.  There  was  something  between 
them  from  which  I  was  excluded.  But  this  much  I 
knew.  There  was  a  threat  in  Father  Adrian's  words, 
and  it  was  I  who  was  the  cause  of  it.  Oh!  if  this  man 
should  bring  evil  upon  Paul!  The  thought  of  it  is 
like  madness  to  me!  See,  there  goes  mfr  pen!  I  can- 
not write  when  I  think  of  it! 

I  have  opened  my  window.     The  very  air  is  sad  with 


"ADREA'S  DIAR7"  189 

the  moaning  of  the  sea,  and  the  rustling  of  the  night 
breeze  in  the  thick,  tangled  shrubbery  below.  But  to 
me  it  is  sweet  and  grateful !  I  am  in  no  mood  for 
pleasant  sounds  or  f  ights.  The  dreariness  of  the  night 
finds  its  echo  in  my  heart.  The  damp  breeze  cools  my 
forehead!  To-night  I  feel  conscious  of  a  new  strength. 
It  is  the  strength  of  hate!  My  mind  is  full  of  dim 
purposes ;  time  will  aid  them  to  gather  strength !  As 
they  group  themselves  together,  action  will  suggest 
itself.  To  time  I  leave  them! 

Let  me  go  back  to  my  recital  of  what  passed  between 
us  three.  A  strange  lethargic  calm  seemed  to  have 
fallen  upon  Paul.  He  turned  to  me  without  even  a 
single  trace  of  the  passion  which  had  lit  up  his  face  a 
few  moments  before. 

"  I  must  go!  "  he  said  quietly.     "  Farewell! " 

I  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  meant  it;  that  he 
was  going  away  without  another  word,  at  what  was 
really  this  priest's  unspoken  bidding.  But  it  was  so. 
From  that  moment,  the  fear  of  Father  Adrian  which 
had  grown  up  in  my  heart  leaped  into  a  new  strength. 
I  was  angry,  and  full  of  resistance. 

"  Why  should  you  go?  "  I  cried.  " I  have  much  to 
say  to  you!" 

"I  must  go  now,  Adrea,"  he  answered  simply.  "When 
I  came  I  had  no  thought  of  staying.  It  is  late! " 


190  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

I  felt  my  face  grow  hot  with  passion  as  I  turned 
swiftly  round  towards  Father  Adrian.  "  It  is  you  who 
should  go,"  I  cried.  "Why  have  you  come  here? 
Why  are  you  always  creeping  across  my  life  like  a 
dark,  noisome  shadow?  Go  away!  Begone!  I  will  not 
be  left  with  you!" 

He  turned  a  shade  paler,  but  he  did  not  sacrifice  his 
dignity,  as  I  hoped  that  he  would,  by  answering  me 
with  auger.  He  did  not  even  answer  me  at  all.  He 
looked  over  my  head  at  my  lover. 

"To-morrow  night!"  he  said  calmly. 

"To-morrow  night!"  Paul  answered. 

I  stood  between  them,  angry  but  helpless.  A  log  of 
wood  had  just  fallen  from  the  fire  on  to  the  hearth,  and 
in  its  sudden  blaze  I  could  see  their  faces  distinctly. 
The  utter  contrast  between  the  two  men  threw  each 
into  strong  relief.  Paul,  in  his  scarlet  coat  and  riding 
clothes,  pale  and  impassive,  but  d6bonnaire\  and 
Father  Adrian,  his  strange  black  garb  mud-bespattered 
and  disordered,  and  his  dark,  angry  face  livid  with  the 
passion  so  hardly  suppressed.  It  was  odd  to  think  of 
them  as  creatures  of  the  same  species.  Odder  still  to 
think  that  there  should  be  this  link  between  them. 

I  walked  with  Paul  to  the  door,  holding  to  his  arm. 
Hiid  talking,  half -gaily,  half -reproachfully,  all  the  way 
We  stood  on  the  step  together  while  his  horse  was  be- 


"ADREA'S  DIARY  "  191 

ing  brought  round,  and  in  the  half-lights  he  stooped 
down  and  kissed  me.  But  his  manner  had  changed. 
Even  his  lips  were  cold,  and  his  eyes  were  no  longer 
bright.  There  was  a  far-awaj  look  in  them,  and  his 
face  was  white  and  set.  There  were  tears  in  my  eyes 
as  I  watched  him  ride  away  on  his  great  brown  horse, 
and  listened  to  the  distant  thunder  of  hoofs  across  the 
moor.  His  face  had  told  its  own  story.  He  was  nerv- 
ing himself  to  face  some  expected  danger.  From  whose 
hands?  Surely  from  Father  Adrian's. 

The  thought  worked  within  me.  I  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, trying  to  quiet  my  passion.  As  I  turned  away 
I  heard  the  stable-yard  doors  open,  and  a  carriage, 
laden  with  luggage,  drove  slowly  out,  and,  without 
coming  to  the  front  at  all,  turned  down  the  avenue.  I 
ran  out,  heedless  of  my  slippers,  and  called  to  it  to 
stop.  The  man  obeyed  ma,  and  I  caught  it  up,  breath- 
less. The  blinds  were  closely  drawn,  but  I  opened  the 
door.  As  I  expected,  it  was  she  who  sat  inside,  closely 
veiled  and  weeping. 

"You  were  going,  then,  without  a  single  word  of 
farewell!"  I  cried  reproachfully.  "Is  that  kind? 
Have  I  deserved  it  from  you?" 

She  threw  up  her  veil.  Her  eyes  were  red  and 
swollen  with  weeping.  She  looked  at  me  pleadingly. 

"Do  not  blame  me  more  than  you  can  help!"  she 


192  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

said.  "It  was  a  eat  shock  to  me  to  see  you — with 
the  son  of  Martin  de  Vaux.  It  was  more  than  a  shock; 
it  was  a  horror  to  me!  He  is  like  his  father!  He  is 
very  like  his  father! " 

I  knew  that  she  had  passed  through  a  fiery  sea  of 
suffering,  and  I  kept  back  the  anger  which  threatened 
me.  I  pointed  upwards. 

"We  cannot  keep  the  dark  clouds  from  gathering 
in  the  sky,  nor  can  we  make  love  come  and  go  at  our 
bidding.  We  are  but  creatures;  it  is  fate  which  or- 
dains!" 

She  bowed  her  head.  "Fate,  or  the  unknown  God! 
I  am  not  your  judge,  child!  I  do  not  leave  you  in 
anger!" 

"  Why  do  you  go,  then,  and  leave  me  here  alone  ?  It 
is  not  kind!  It  is  not  what  I  should  expect  from  you!" 

The  tears  started  again  into  her  eyes,  but  she  shook 
them  away.  "I  cannot  explain  as  yet,"  she  said.  "You 
will  think  me  ungrateful,  I  fear!  I  cannot  help  it!  I 
must  go.  Farewell,  Adrea!" 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  me.  It  was  an  inspir- 
ation. "  You  are  not  going  of  your  own  free  will,"  I 
cried.  "  Some  one  has  been  influencing  you ! " 

Her  face  was  suddenly  full  of  nervous  terror.  "  Hush ! 
hush!"  she  cried.  "He  will  hear  you!  Let  me  go 
now!  Let  me  go,  I  beseech  you!" 


"ADREA'S  DIARY'1  193 

I  held  her  hands,  "It  is  Father  Adrian  who  is 
sending  you  away,"  I  cried  passionately.  "  He  is  my 
enemy.  I  hate  him!  Why  should  you  obey  him? 
Stay  with  me!  Do,  do  stay!" 

She  looked  at  me  as  one  would  look  at  an  ignorant 
child  who  blasphemes.  "You  are  talking  wildly! 
Father  Adrian  is  far  from  being  your  enemy.  You  do 
not  understand ! " 

Her  voice  had  changed;  the  note  of  sympathy  had 
died  away.  I  turned  away  from  the  carriage  door  in 
despair.  Father  Adrian's  power  was  greater  than  mine. 

"You  can  go!  "  I  said  bitterly.  "You  would  have 
left  me  here  without  one  word,  at  his  bidding.  As  you 
say,  I  do  not  understand." 

She  leaned  forward,  with  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes. 
"Child,"  she  whispered,  "lam  going  to  Cruta." 

The  carriage  drove  away  and  I  walked  back  to  the 
house.  The  air  seemed  full  of  voices,  and  the  grey 
rising  mists  loomed  into  strange  shapes.  Cruta!  She 
was  going  to  Cruta!  What  power  had  this  man  in  his 
hands  to  send  my  lover  from  me  with  a  heart  like  a 
stone,  and  this  woman  back  into  the  living  hell  from 
which  she  had  just  freed  herself.  It  was  my  turn  now ! 
Would  he  be  able  to  subdue  me  to  his  bidding?  The 
thought  made  me  shudder. 

I  ran  upstairs  into  my  room,  and  bathed  my  fore- 


194  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

bead,  and  re-arranged  my  gown.  Then  I  set  my  teeth 
together,  and  went  down  to  him.  It  was  to  be  a  battle ! 
Well!  I  was  prepared! 

*  *  *  * 

It  is  over  now.  I  know  his  strength,  and  I  know 
his  weakness.  What  passed  between  us  I  shall  put 
down  to-morrow.  To-night  I  am  weary. 


"OH i  HEART  OF  STONE"  193 


CHAPTER   XXII 

"OH!  HEART  OF  STONE,  YET  FLESH  TO  ALL  SAVE  ME" 

"  THIS  is  exactly  what  happened  after  I  regained  the 
house.  I  went  upstairs  for  a  few  minutes  to  arrange 
my  hair  and  bathe  my  eyes.  Then  I  walked  straight 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  and  I  told  myself  that  I 
was  prepared  for  anything  that  might  take  place. 

Father  Adrian  did  not  hear  me  enter,  so  I  had  the 
advantage  at  the  onset  of  taking  him  by  surprise. 
He  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  hearthrug,  with 
his  arms  folded  and  his  eyes  cast  down  upon  the 
ground.  His  eyebrows  almost  met  in  a  black  frown, 
and  a  curious  grey  pallor  had  spread  itself  over  his 
face.  When  I  entered,  noiselessly  moving  the  curtains, 
from  the  outer  chamber,  he  was  muttering  to  himself, 
and  I  strained  my  hearing  to  catch  the  meaning  of  his 
words. 

"To-night  must  end  it!"  I  heard  him  say.  "She 
herself  shall  decide.  Greater  men  have  travelled  the 
path  before  me!  As  for  him,  my  pity  has  grown  faint  I 


196  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

It  is  the  will  of  the  Church!  I  myself  am  but  the 
instrument.  He  stands  between  the  Church  and  her 
rights!  Between  me  and — her!" 

His  cheeks  flushed,  and  his  expression  suddenly 
changed.  He  whispered  a  name!  It  was  mine!  His 
eyes  were  soft,  and  his  lips  were  parted.  The  priest 
had  vanished.  His  face  was  human  and  manly.  I 
saw  it,  but  my  heart  was  as  cold  as  steel. 

"  Father  Adrian,"  I  said  quietly,  "I  am  here." 

He  started,  and  looked  towards  me.  If  my  heart 
could  have  been  softened  even  to  pity,  it  would  have 
been  softened  by  that  look.  But  a  woman's  great  self- 
ishness was  upon  me!  The  man  I  loved  was  in  some 
sort  of  danger  at  his  hands.  There  was  no  room  in 
my  heart  for  any  other  thought.  I  was  adamant. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  faced  ma 
steadily,  and  spoke.  "  So  you  have  learned  to  love 
this  Englishman,  this  De  Yaux,  the  son  of  old  Martin 
de  Vaux!  Answer  me  simply,  Yes  or  No!  " 

"I  have!" 

I  did  not  hesitate.  What  need  was  there  for  hesi- 
tation ?  I  answered  him  defiantly,  and  without  falter- 
ing. 

"You  will  never  marry  him!  You  will  not  even 
become  his  mistress!" 


"OS!  HEART  OF  STONE"  197 

I  made  no  answer  at  first ;    I  laughed!  that  was  all. 

"  Who  will  prevent  me?" 

"I  shall!" 

"How?" 

"The  means  are  ready  to  my  hand!" 

My  heart  sank,  but  I  forced  a  smile.  "  What  are 
they?" 

He  considered  a  moment.  "I  can  strip  Paul  de 
Vaux  of  every  acre  and  every  penny  he  possesses!  I 
can  break  his  mother's  heart!  I  can  proclaim  his 
father  a  murderer!  " 

"I  do  not  understand!     I  do  not  believe!" 

The  words  left  me  boldly  enough,  but  there  was  a 
lump  in  my  throat,  and  my  heart  was  sick. 

"  Listen!  "  He  drew  a  small  gold  crucifix  from  his 
breast,  and  solemnly  kissed  it.  Then,  holding  it  in  his 
hand,  he  repeated, — 

"  I  can  beggar  Paul  de  Vaux  by  my  proven  word.  I 
can  take  from  him  everything  precious  in  life!  I  can 
take  from  him  his  name  and  his  honours!  I  can  break 
his  mother's  heart!  I  can  proclaim  his  father  a  mur- 
derer! All  this  I  can  and  will  do,  save  you  listen  to 
me!5' 

He  kissed  the  crucifix,  and  replaced  it  in  his  inner 
pocket.  I  had  begun  to  tremble.  The  stamp  of  truth 
was  upon  his  words.  Still  I  tried  to  face  him  boldly. 


198  A  MONK  OF  CHUT  A 

"  Even  if  this  is  so,  what  has  it  to  d©  with  me  ?  '*  I 
cried. 

"You  know!"  he  answered.  "In  your  heart  you 
know!  Yet,  if  you  will — listen!"  he  continued,  in  a 
low  tone.  "  You  love  Paul  de  Vaux! " 

"It  is  true!" 

"  And  you  believe  that  he  loves  you?  " 

"I  do!" 

"  Listen,  then ! "  Three  nights  ago  I  lifted  that  cur- 
tain, by  the  side  of  one  who  has  left  you  for  ever,  and 
I  saw  you  in  his  arms.  I  followed  him  out  of  the 
house;  I  walked  by  his  side  to  Vaux  Abbey,  and  I 
told  him  what  I  have  told  you.  I  wasted  no  time  in 
idle  threats.  I  told  him  what  power  was  mine,  and  I 
said  'Choose!'  He  was  silent!" 

"Choose  between  what?"  I  interrupted. 

"  I  bade  him  swear  that  he  would  never  willingly 
look  upon  your  face  again,  or  prepare  himself  to  face 
all  the  evils  which  it  was  in  my  power  to  bring  upon 
him." 

"And  he?" 

"He  asked  for  time— for  a  week! " 

A  storm  of  anger  was  suddenly  stirred  up  within  me. 
I  turned  upon  him  with  flashing  eyes  and  quivering 
lips.  Discretion  and  restraint  were  gone;  I  was  like  a 
tigress.  I  lacked  only  the  power  to  kill. 


"OH!  HEART  OF  STONE"  109 

"And  by  what  right  did  you  dare  to  thrust  yourself 
between  us?  "  I  cried.  "  What  have  I  to  do  with  you, 
or  you  with  me?  " 

He  held  up  his  hands  for  a  moment,  as  though  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  my  face,  ablaze  with  scorn  and 
hatred.  There  was  a  short  silerce.  Then  he  spoke  in 
a  low  tone,  vibrating  with  intensity  of  feeling. 

"You  know!  In  your  heart  you  know!"  he  said. 
"  Into  my  life  has  come  the  greatest  humiliation  which 
can  befall  such  as  I  am !  In  sorrow  and  bitterness  it 
has  eaten  itself  into  my  heart.  I  am  accursed  in  my 
own  sight,  and  in  the  sight  of  God! " 

I  mocked  at  him.  "  I  am  not  your  confessor!  "  I 
laughed.  "  Go  and  tell  your  sins  to  those  of  your  own 
order!  I  am  a  woman  and  you  are  a  priest!  Why  do 
you  look  at  me  with  that  light  in  your  eyes  ?  Am  I  a 
prayer-book?  Is  there  anything  saintly  in  my  face, 
that  you  should  keep  your  eyes  fixed  upon  it  so 
steadily?" 

I  had  hoped  that  my  words  would  madden  him,  and 
he  would  lose  his  self-control.  To  my  surprise,  they 
had  but  little  effect.  He  seemed  scarcely  to  have 
heard. 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  me,  or  I  with  you?"  he 
repeated,  in  a  voice  which  was  rapidly  gaining  strength 
and  passion.  "  God  knows!  Yet  as  surely  as  we  both 


200  A  MQNK  OF  OMVTA 

live,  our  lots  are  intertwined  the  one  with  tke  other." 
"  A  godly  priest! "  I  laughed.     "  What  have  you  to 
do  with  me  ?     What  of  your  vows  ?     Oh,  how  dare  you 
try  to  play  the  lover  with  me!     You  hypocrite!  " 

He  shrank  back  as  though  in  pain.  I  laughed  out- 
right, glad  that  I  had  made  him  feel. 

"  Adrea! "  he  said  slowly.  "  I  was  never  a  hypocrite 
to  you.  In  your  presence  I  have  never  breathed  a  word 
of  my  religion.  Think  for  a  moment  of  those  days  at 
Cruta.  Did  I  not  refuse  to  confess  you  ?  Why  ?  You 
know!  Because  of  those  long,  dreamy  days  we  spent 
together,  not  as  priest  and  penitent,  but  as  man  and 
woman.  Do  you  remember  them — the  cliffs,  with  their 
giant  shadows  standing  out  across  the  blue  waters  of 
the  harbour ;  the  hollows,  where  we  sat  amongst  the 
perfumed  wild  flowers,  gazing  across  the  sea,  and 
watching  the  white  sails  in  the  distance;  the  nights, 
with  their  white  moonlight  and  silent  grandeur!  Ay, 
Adrea!  look  me  in  the  face,  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  that 
you  have  forgotten  them!  You  cannot!  You  dare  not!  It 
was  you  who  brought  me  those  books  of  wild,  passionate 
poetry  whose  music  entered  into  my  very  soul !  It  was  you 
who  tempted  me  with  soft  words,  with  your  music,  with 
your  beauty,  into  that  world  of  sense  which  holds  me 
prisoner  for  ever.  What  I  once  was,  I  can  never  be 
again!  It  is  you  who  worked  the  change — you  who 


"OH!  HEART  OF  STONE"  201 

awoke  my  man's  heart,  and  set  it  beating  for  ever  at 
your  touch,  at  your  movements,  at  the  sight  of  you.  It 
is  you  who  taught  me  how  to  love — who  opened  to  me 
the  rose-covered  gates  of  hell !  There  is  no  drawing 
back!  You,  who  have  dragged  me  down,  shall  share 
my  fall  with  me,  for  better  or  for  worse!  You  shall 
not  escape!  No  other  man  shall  have  you!  I  have 
paid  the  price,  and  I  will  have  you!  " 

I  wrenched  myself  free  from  the  arms  which  were 
closing  around  me,  and  stood  trembling  before  him. 

"  Fool! "  I  cried.  "  You  have  dared  to  think  of  me 
like  that  because  I  chose  to  make  use  of  you  at  Cruta! 
Make  use  of  you!  Yes,  that  is  what  I  did!  I  wanted 
to  escape!  You  and  she  were  the  only  ones  who  could 
help  me !  Save  for  that,  I  had  never  wasted  a  moment 
upon  you.  I  never  thought  of  you  as  a  man ;  you  were 
only  a  priest.  I  never  wished  to  see  you  again !  You  are 
in  my  way  now ;  you  stand  between  me  and  the  man  I 
love!  I  hate  you!" 

His  dark  eyes  were  lit  up  with  a  sudden  fire  and  a 
deep  flush  stained  his  cheeks.  For  the  first  time  I 
seemed  to  see  the  man  in  him  as  well  as  the  priest, 
and  I  saw  that  he  was  handsome.  It  did  not  interest 
me ;  I  noticed  it  only  as  an  incident. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are  not 
so  false  as  you  would  have  me  believe,  Adrea!" 


202  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

His  hand  was  on  my  wrist,  and  his  dark  eyes, 
strangely  softened,  were  fixed  pleadingly  upon  mine. 
Something  in  his  manner,  even  in  his  tone,  seemed  to 
remind  me  of  Paul.  I  was  magnetized!  For  a  moment 
I  could  not  move,  and  during  that  moment  his  bauds 
closed  upon  mine. 

"  Adrea,  is  such  a  love  as  I  can  offer  you  worth  noth- 
ing? What  did  you  tell  me  once  was  your  life's  ideal? 
Was  it  not  the  love  of  a  strong,  true  man,  always  faith- 
ful, always  loving  ?  No  one  could  love  you  more  ten- 
derly than  I,  no  one  could  be  more  faithful.  Until  I  saw 
you,  no  woman's  face  had  dwelt  in  my  thoughts  for  a 
single  instant.  In  my  heart  you  reign  alone,  Adrea ! 
No  one  has  been  there  before — no  one  will  come  after ! 
Such  as  it  is,  it  is  a  kingdom  of  your  own! " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  I  said  slowly,  withdraw- 
ing my  hands.  "You  talk  to  me  of  a  man's  love,  a 
man's  faithfulness!  What  do  you  know  of  it?  You 
are  a  priest! " 

He  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  sudden  cry  of  agony. 
His  face  was  white  and  blanched. 

"Do  I  not  know  it?"  he  exclaimed  in  a  low,  fierce 
tone.  "  Do  you  think  I  yielded  easily  to  the  poisoned 
web  you  have  woven  around  me  ?  The  horror  of  it  all 
has  darkened  my  days,  and  made  hideous  my  nights. 
Aad  yet  yom  can  taunt  me  with  it — you,  for  wkem  I 


»9E!  HEART  Of  ST9NE  "  208 

yield  up  conscience  and  future — you,  fer  whom  I  give 
my  soul!  No  other  man  could  love  as  I  love,  Adrea! " 

I  looked  him  straight  in  the  face  and  I  did  not  spare 
him.  What  was  the  use?  The  truth  was  best! 

"  It  is  folly !  "  I  said.  "  If  your  religion  is  worth 
anything  to  you,  let  it  help  you  now!  Let  it  teach 
you  to  forget  me!  Go  away  from  here,  and  leave  un- 
harmed the  man  I  love.  If  you  do  not,  I  shall  hate 
you!" 

He  caught  hold  of  my  dress.  He  was  on  his  knees 
before  me — a  bent,  imploring  figure. 

"Too  late!  too  late!"  he  cried.  "My  religion  has 
gone!  When  love  for  you  crept  into  my  heart,  I  be- 
came worse  than  a  heretic.  It  was  sin,  and  the  sin 
has  spread.  Oh!  have  mercy  upon  me,  Adrea,  have 
mercy  upon  me !  Just  a  little  of  your  love.  It  may 
not  be  much  at  first,  but  it  will  grow.  Adrea,  you 
must  try — you  shall  try!" 

I  shook  my  gown  from  his  trembling  fingers,  and 
looked  down  upon  him  with  contempt  in  my  heart,  and 
contempt  in  my  face.  The  flickering  firelight  cast  a 

faint  glow  upon  his  blanched,  wan  features,  and  their 

?% 

utter  humility  filled  me  with  an  unreasoning  and  un- 
reasonable loathing.  I  did  not  try  to  eoften  my  words. 
I  spoke  out  just  as  I  felt,  and  watched  him  rise  slowly 
to  his  feet,  like  a  hunted  and  stricken  animal,  without 


204  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

a  pitying  word  or  glance.  As  he  rose  upright,  his 
bead  dropped.  He  did  not  look  at  me;  he  did  not 
speak  a  single  word.  He  walked  slowly  to  the  door 
with  steps  that  faltered  a  little,  and  walked  out  of  the 
room,  and  out  of  the  house. 

I  watched  him  down  the  avenue,  wondering  at  his 
strange  silence.  It  had  a  curious  effect  upon  me.  I 
would  rather  have  heard  threats — even  a  torrent  of 
anger.  There  was  something  curiously  ominous  in 
that  slow,  wordless  exit.  I  watched  him  uneasily,  full 
of  dim,  shapeless  fears. 

Outside  the  gate  he  paused  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  To  the  left  was  the  monastery  where  he  had 
stayed;  to  the  right  was  Vaux  Abbey.  I  heard  my 
heart  beat  while  he  paused,  and  my  face  was  pressed 
against  the  window.  For  nearly  a  minute  he  stood 
quite  still,  with  downcast  head,  thinking.  Then  he 
turned  deliberately  to  the  right,  and  set  his  face 
towards  Vaux  Abbey. 

#  #  #  *  * 

That  was  early  in  the  evening  yesterday — twenty- 
four  hours  ago.  Since  then  not  a  soul  has  been  near 
the  house.  Early  this  morning  I  saw  Father  Adrian 
coming  along  the  road  from  Vaux.  I  ran  upstairs, 
and  locked  myself  in  my  room,  after  forbidding  the 
servants  to  let  him  enter.  From  the  windows  I 


"OH!  HEART  OF  STONE"  205 

watched  him.  To  my  surprise  he  never  even  glanced 
in.  He  walked  past  the  gates,  and  took  the  road  to 
the  monastery.  I  saw  him  slowly  ascend  the  hill  and 
vanish  out  of  sight  in  the  darkening  twilight.  Once, 
just  before  he  reached  the  summit,  he  paused  and 
looked  steadily  down  here.  I  could  not  see  his  face, 
but  I  saw  him  raise  his  right  hand  for  a  moment 
toward  the  sky.  Then  he  turned  round  and  pursued 

his  way. 

***** 

If  some  one  does  not  come  to  me  soon,  I  shall  go 
mad.  Another  hour  has  passed.  My  mind  is  made 
up;  I  shall  go  to  Vaux  Abbey. 


306 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"  MY  LIPS  ABE  CHARGED  WITH  TRUTH,  AND  JUSTICE  BIDS 
ME  SPEAK" 

AN  early  darkness  had  fallen  upon  the  earth.  Black 
clouds  had  sailed  across  the  young  moon,  and  the  even- 
ing breeze  had  changed  into  a  gale.  There  was  no 
rain  as  yet,  but  every  prospect  of  it  near  at  hand.  A 
mass  of  lurid,  yellowish  clouds  hung  low  down  over 
the  bending  woods,  and  the  wind  whistled  drearily 
amongst  the  fir  trees.  Paul  de  Vaux  wrapped  his 
cloak  tightly  around  him,  and,  standing  on  the  turf- 
covered  floor  of  the  ruined  chapel,  peered  forward  into 
the  darkness,  looking  for  the  man  whom  he  had  come 
to  meet.  Even  then  he  heard  his  voice  before  he 
could  distinguish  the  dim  outline  of  Father  Adrian 
standing  by  his  side. 

"So  you  have  come,  Paul  de  Vaux,  and  in  good 
time!  It  is  well!" 

"I  am  here!"  Pau1  answered  shortly.  "If  what 
you  have  to  say  to  me  will  take  long,  come  up  to  the 
house.  It  is  dark  and  cold,  and  there  is  a  storm  ris- 
ing." 


"MY  LIPS  ARE  CHARGED  WITH  TRUTH"       307 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  find 
shelter  under  the  roof  of  Vaux  Abbey,"  he  said  coldly. 
"  You  are  well  protected  against  the  weather,  and  so 
am  I.  Let  us  stay  here! " 

Paul  strove  to  look  into  his  face,  but  the  darkness 
baffled  him.  He  could  only  see  its  outline,  nothing  of 
his  expression.  "  As  you  will,"  he  answered.  "Speak! 
I  am  ready." 

"  I  have  dealt  in  no  idle  threats,  Paul  de  Vaux,"  was 
the  stern  answer.  "I  gave  you  a  chance,  and  you 
have  thrown  it  away.  Perhaps  I  did  ill  ever  to  offer 
it  to  you.  But,  at  any  rate,  remember  this:  it  is  no 
idle  vengeance  which  I  am  dealing  out  to  you  this 
night;  it  is  our  holy  and  despoiled  Church  calling  for 
justice.  I  speak  in  her  name!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Paul  knew  by  hie 
companion's  bowed  head  and  laboured  utterance  that 
he  was  suffering  from  some  sort  of  emotion.  But  the 
darkness  hid  from  him  the  workings  of  his  pale  fea- 
tures. When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  low  and  solemn. 

"  Paul  de  Yaux,  turn  back  in  your  mind  to  another 
night  such  as  this,  when  the  thunder  of  sea  and  wind 
shook  the  air,  and  the  anger  of  God  seemed  fallen  upon 
the  earth.  On  that  night  your  father  lay  dying  in  the 
island  monastery  of  Cruta;  and  while  you  were  risking 
your  life  in  the  storm  to  reach  him,  I  knelt  by  hie  side 


908  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

praying  for  his  soul,  that  it  might  not  sink  down 
amongst  the  damned  in  hell.  He  was  a  brave  man, 
but  with  the  icy  hand  of  death  closing  around  him  fear 
touched  his  heart.  It  was  no  craven  fear!  He  lay 
there  still  and  quiet,  but  his  heart  was  troubled.  In 
ths  midst  of  my  prayers  he  stopped  me,  and  took  the 
crucifix  into  his  own  hand. 

"  *  Father,'  he  said,  '  I  have  no  faith  in  dying  re- 
pentances. I  have  scouted  religion  all  my  life,  and  on 
my  deathbed  I  will  not  cry  for  comfort  to  a  Divinity 
which  is  a  myth  to  me.  Yet,  as  man  to  man,  listen 
while  I  tell  you  a  secret;  and  when  I  have  finished, 
do  you  pray  for  me.' 

"  Shall  I  go  on,  Paul  de  Vaux?  Shall  I  tell  you  all 
that  your  father's  dying  lips  faltered  out  to  me  ?  " 

"All!  every  word!  Keep  nothing  back!"  Paul 
spoke  quickly,  almost  feverishly.  He  knew  a  little, 
but  something  told  him  that  this  priest  knew  more. 
He  began  dimly  to  suspect  the  nature  of  the  revela- 
tion which  was  to  come. 

"You  shall  know  everything,"  Father  Adrian  con- 
tinued, in  the  same  hushed  tone,  so  low  that  Paul 
had  to  bend  forward  to  catch  the  words  as  they  fell 
from  his  lips.  "  If  Martin  de  Vaux  had  been  of  our 
religion,  and  had  sought  me  as  a  priest  of  the  Church 
a  seal  would  have  been  Bet  upon  my  mouth.  But  it 


"MY  LIPS  ARE  CHARGED  WITH  TRUTH'        300 

was  not  so!  Despite  all  my  ministrations,  he  died 
as  he  had  lived,  in  heresy  and  grievous  sin.  After 
all,  it  is  only  right  that  you,  his  son,  should  know 
what  he  forebore  to  tell  you.  Yet,  in  my  weakness 
I  might  have  spared  you,  if  you  yourself  had  not 
brought  down  this  blow  upon  your  head." 

Paul  raised  his  hand,  and  Father  Adrian  paused. 
"Listen,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  deep  tone.  "There  are 
secret  pages  in  the  lives  of  most  of  us — pages  blurred 
and  scarred  with  misery  and  suffering  and  sin.  But 
there  is  a  difference — a  great  difference.  Some  are 
turned  over  with  firm  and  penitent  fingers,  and, 
although  their  scarlet  record  may  never  be  blotted  out, 
yet,  by  sacrifice  and  atonement,  the  fruits  of  the  sin 
itself  may  die,  and,  dying,  cast  no  shadow  into  the 
future.  A  sin  against  humanity  can  often  be  righted 
by  human  justice.  Towards  the  close  of  my  father's 
days,  I  knew  for  the  first  time  that  there  was  in 
his  life  one  of  those  disfigured  pages.  He  told  me 
nothing.  I  sought  to  know  nothing.  Father 
Adrian,"  Paul  went  on,  with  a  sudden  strain  of  pas- 
sion in  his  tone,  and  a  gesture  half  unseen  in  the 
darkness,  "  if  the  shadow  of  his  sin  rests  upon  any 
human  being,  if  it  still  lives  upon  the  earth,  then 
tell  me  all  that  is  in  your  heart  to  tell,  for  there 
is  work  to  be  done.  But  if  that  page  be  locked  and 


210  A  MONK  OF  CHUT  A 

sealed,  if  those  who  suffered  through  it  are  dead, 
and  the  burden  which  darkened  my  father's  days  if 
his  alone,  then  spare  his  memory!  Strike  at  me,  if 
you  will!  Deal  out  your  promised  vengeance,  but 
let  it  fall  on  me  alone!" 

Paul  ended  his  speech  with  a  little  burst  of  pas- 
sion ringing  in  those  last  few  words.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  deep  and  fervent  desire  to  hear  nothing, 
to  listen  to  nothing,  which  could  teach  him  to  hold 
less  dear  his  father's  memory.  He  shrank,  with  a 
human  and  perfectly  natural  feeling,  from  hearing 
evil  of  the  dead.  That  last  evil  deed,  the  murder 
in  that  grim,  bare  chamber  of  death,  had  haunted  him 
with  vivid  and  painful  intensity.  But  it  was  a  crime 
by  itself.  It  was  horrible  to  imagine  that  it  might 
indeed  be  the  culmination  of  a  life  of  license  and  con- 
^ernpt  of  all  human  laws.  He  had  tried  to  think  of  it 
is  something  outside  his  father's  life,  something  done 
in  a  momentary  fit  of  madness,  and  that  the  man  who 
suffered  by  it  was  some  monster  unfit  for  the  compan- 
ionship of  his  fellows — unfit  to  live.  There  were  still 
tales  to  be  heard  in  the  county,  and  about  town  even, 
of  the  wild  doings  of  Martin  de  Vaux  in  his  younger 
days ;  but  none  of  these  had  reached  his  son's  ears. 
He  would  have  been  the  last  person  likely  to  hear  ot 
them 


"JUT  LIPS  AES  OHAM9SSD  WITH  TMVTm*      311 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  before  Father  Adrian 
spoke  again  the  low-lying  clouds  were  swept  orar  tkeir 
heads  by  a  gale  from  seaward,  and  the  wind  com- 
menced to  whistle  and  shriek  in  the  pine  wood,  and 
roar  amongst  the  crumbling  ruins,  which  scarcely  af- 
forded them  protection  from  the  blinding  rain.  Any 
further  conversation  was  impossible.  Paul  lifted  up 
his  voice,  and  shouted  in  his  companion's  ear — 

"These  walls  are  not  safe!  We  must  go  into  the 
house.  Will  you  come?  " 

Father  Adrian  hesitated,  and  then  assented,  wrap- 
ping his  cloak  around  him.  In  a  few  moments  they 
were  inside  the  library,  having  entered  through  a  pri- 
vate door  and  met  no  one.  Breathless,  Paul  threw  off 
his  cloak,  which  was  dripping  with  rain,  and  turned 
round  almost  fiercely  upon  his  companion. 

"Now  speak!  "  he  said.     "I  am  ready  to  hear  all." 

The  priest  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  with  his  pale  face  turned  towards  the  fire,  he 
commenced  to  speak. 

"Sin  is  everlasting!"  he  said  slowly.  "Your 
father's  sin  lives,  and  on  you  the  burden  must  fall !  If 
you  had  kept  the  covenant  which  I  placed  before  you, 
I  might  have  spared  you.  You  yourself  have  chosen. 
You  must  hear  all!  Listen! 

"  It  was  by  chance  that  I  was  spending  two  months 


&12  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

in  charge  of  the  monastery  of  St.  Jerome,  at  Cruta, 
when  your  father  arrived,"  he  continued,  without  any 
pause.  "  He  sought  our  hospitality  and  he  at  once 
obtained  it.  For  two  days  he  dwelt  with  us,  spending 
his  time  for  the  most  part  in  idle  fashion,  wandering 
about  along  the  seashore  or  on  the  cliffs,  but  always 
with  the  look  on  his  face  of  a  man  who  does  but  dally 
with  some  fixed  purpose.  His  doings  were  nothing  to 
me,  but  by  chance,  from  one  of  the  brethren,  I  learnt 
that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  island — that  once,  many 
years  ago,  he  had  been  the  guest  of  the  lord  who  ruled 
the  little  territory,  and  whose  castle  overshadows  the 
monastery. 

"  On  the  third  day  of  his  stay,  he  remained  within 
his  guest-chamber  until  sundown,  writing.  As  the 
vesper-bell  rang  I  met  him  in  the  corridor,  dressed  for 
walking,  and  from  his  countenance  I  judged  that  what- 
ever his  mission  to  the  island  might  be,  he  was  about 
to  bring  it  to  an  end.  He  passed  me  without  speech, 
almost  as  though  he  had  not  seen  me,  and  left  the  mon- 
astery. A  few  minutes  afterwards,  looking  down  from 
the  windows  to  watch  the  brethren  come  in  from  their 
field  tasks,  I  saw  him  take  the  road  up  to  the  castle. 

"It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  he  re- 
turned. Midnight  had  come  and  gone,  and  every  one 
in  the  monastery  was  asleep,  when  the  hoarse,  clanging 


"MY  LIPS  ARE  CHARGED  WITH  TRUTH"       213 

bell  down  in  the  yard  rang  slightly,  as  though  pulled 
by  feeble  fingers.  I  threw  my  cloak  over  my  shoul- 
ders, and  descended  to  admit  him.  When  the  last  of 
the  huge  bolts  had  been  withdrawn,  and  I  threw  the 
door  open,  I  found  him  leaning  against  the  wall,  with 
his  fingers  clutched  together  in  agony,  and  his  blood- 
less features  convulsed  with  pain.  The  moonlight  was 
falling  right  across  his  face,  pale  and  ghastly  with 
pain,  and  by  its  light  I  seemed  to  see  something  dark 
dropping  from  him  on  the  white  flags.  I  leaned  for- 
ward, horror-stricken,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  blood." 

"My  God!" 

Paul  was  standing  very  still  and  rigid,  with  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  priest.  As  yet,  he  scarcely  realized 
anything  more  than  that  he  was  being  told  a  very  hor- 
rible story.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a  feverish  impa- 
tience, quite  beyond  his  control.  When  Father  Adrian 
paused  at  his  exclamation,  he  beat  the  ground  with  his 
foot  impatiently.  "  Go  on!  Go  on! "  he  said  hoarsely. 

"I  had  no  time  to  ask  questions,"  the  priest  con- 
tinued quietly.  "  Directly  he  left  the  support  of  the 
wall,  and  endeavoured  to  move  towards  me,  your  father 
threw  up  his  arms  with  a  sharp  cry  of  pain,  and  almost 
fell  upon  his  face.  I  was  just  in  time  to  catch  him, 
and  exerting  all  my  strength — for  he  was  a  powerful 
man — I  dragged  him  up  the  ateps  and  along  the  corn- 


214  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

dor  to  the  nearest  empty  cell.  There  I  laid  him  down 
upon  a  bed  of  ferns,  and  then  hurried  out  to  summon 
one  of  the  brethren  who  was  skilled  in  medicine. 

"  In  a  few  moments  he  returned  with  me.  By  his 
direction,  I  gave  your  father  brandy  and  other  restora- 
tives, while  he  cut  open  his  coat  to  find  out,  if  he  could, 
the  nature  of  the  wound.  It  was  easily  discovered. 
He  had  been  stabbed  by  a  long  dagger  just  below  the 
heart.  Had  the  dagger  entered  one-sixteenth  of  an 
inch  higher,  he  must  have  bled  to  death  upon  the  spot. 

"We  bound  up  the  hurt  as  well  as  we  could,  and 
with  the  help  of  other  of  the  monks,  we  carried  him 
up  to  the  guest-chamber,  and  put  him  to  bed.  In  about 
half  an  hour  he  recovered  consciousness,  and  called  me 
to  his  side. 

"  '  Pencil,  paper,'  he  whispered. 

"  I  handed  him  both.  After  several  futile  efforts  he 
succeeded  in  writing  a  few  words.  Then  he  folded  up 
the  note,  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"  'If  you  will  send  it  without  delay,'  he  whispered, 
'  I  will  give  one  hundred  pounds  to  the  monastery.' 

"  I  never  hesitated,  for  our  funds  were  in  a  desper- 
ate state ;  but  first  I  glanced  at  the  direction.  It  was 
addressd  to — 

PAUL  DE  VAUX,  Esq., 
c/o  The  English  Consul, 

Palermo. 


"MY  LIPS  ARE  CHARGED  WITH  TRUTH1'       215 

"  I  promised  that  it  should  be  sent,  and,  as  you 

know,  it  was.     Then  I  sent  the  others  out  of  the  room, 

« 

and  inquired  about  his  hurt.  He  set  his  lips  firm,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  '  It  was  an  accident,'  he  faltered.  *  No  one  was  to 
blame.' 

"  I  told  him  briefly  that  it  was  impossible.  The  na- 
ture of  his  wound  was  such  that  it  was  clearly  the 
work  of  an  assassin.  In  a  certain  sense  we  were  the  up- 
holders of  the  law  on  the  island,  and  I  pointed  this  out 
to  him  sternly.  He  only  shook  his  head  and  closed 
his  eyes.  Neither  then  nor  at  any  other  time  could  I 
gain  from  him  one  single  word  as  to  his  doings  on  that 
night.  He  would  tell  me  nothing." 

"  You  saw  him  going  toward  the  castle,"  Paul  in- 
terrupted. "Did  you  make  inquiries  there?" 

The  priest  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  No,  I  made  no 
inquiries,"  he  answered.  "It  was  no  matter  for  my 
interference.  The  castle,  although  it  is  a  huge  place, 
was  deserted  save  for  a  few  native  servants,  whose 
patois  was  unintelligible  to  me.  There  were  only  two 
who  dwelt  there — the  old  Count  himself,  and  one  other — 
to  whom  I  could  have  gone.  Several  nights  after  your 
father's  illness  I  left  the  monastery,  and  tried  to  see 
the  Count.  He  would  not  even  have  me  admitted,  and 
on  my  return,  your  father,  who  had  guessed  the  reason 
of  my  absence,  sent  for  me.  He  judged  of  the  ill  sue- 


216  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

cess  of  my  mission,  by  my  face,  and  he  instantly  ap- 
peared relieved.  He  then  called  me  to  the  bedside, 
and  made  me  an  offer.  He  would  give  me,  as  a  further 
contribution  to  our  exhausted  funds,  a  large  sum  of 
money  on  this  condition — that  I  took  no  further  steps 
in  any  direction  towards  ascertaining  the  nature  of  his 
accident,  as  he  chose  to  call  it,  and  that  I  should  not 
mention  it  to  you  as  the  cause  of  his  illness,  or  refer 
to  it  in  any  way  if  you  arrived  while  he  was  there.  I 
hesitated  for  some  time,  but  in  the  end  I  consented. 
The  money  in  itself  was  a  great  temptation — you  see, 
I  am  frank  with  you — and,  apart  from  that,  your  father 
at  that  time  was  on  the  verge  of  his  fever,  and  at  such 
a  critical  time  I  feared  the  ill  results  of  not  falling  in 
with  his  wishes.  So  I  promised,  and  I  kept  my  prom- 
ise ;  no  one — not  even  you — knew  that  he  died  from 
that  dagger  thrust,  and  during  the  remainder  of  my 
stay  on  the  island,  I  asked  no  questions  concerning 
his  visit  to  the  castle." 

"  But  did  you  hear  nothing  ?  were  there  no  reports  ?  " 
Paul  asked. 

Father  Adrian  hesitated.  "  There  were  no  reports 
about  your  father,"  he  said,  "  but  the  castle  itself  was 
always  the  object  of  the  most  unbounded  superstition 
on  the  part  of  the  inhabitants.  They  told  strange  tales 
of  midnight  cries,  of  lights  from  blocked-up  chambers, 
and  of  the  old  Count  who  still  dwelt  there,  although  he 


217 

had  not  been  seen  outside  the  castle  walls  for  many  a 
year.  He  was  reported  to  have  sold  himself  to  the 
Evil  One,  and  at  the  very  mention  of  his  name  the 
people  crossed  themselves  in  terror,  and  glanced 
uneasily  over  their  shoulders." 

"  Idle  tales! "  cried  Paul  angrily.  "  Tell  me,  Fathei 
Adrian,  did  you  know  this  Count  of  Cruta?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Father  Adrian's  face 
was  turned  away,  and  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  answer. 
"  Yes,  I  knew  him." 

"You  knew  him!     What  is  he  like?     Tell  me!" 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "  I  have  nothing  to  tell 
you,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  not  tell  me." 

The  priest  inclined  his  head.  Paul  turned  upon 
him  fiercely,  "  He  was  my  father's  murderer,"  he 
cried. 

"It  may  be  so.  But  remember  that  nothing  is 
known!  Eemember,  too,  that  your  father's  last  wish 
was  to  keep  secret  the  manner  of  his  death!" 

Paul  seemed  scarcely  to  have  heard  him.  He  was 
walking  restlessly  up  and  down  the  apartment.  Pres- 
ently he  stopped  in  front  of  Father  Adrian's  chair. 

"  You  have  told  me  what  happened  to  my  father  on 
the  island,"  he  said ;  "  now  tell  me  the  story  of  his  life, 
which  you  say  that  he  confided  to  you.  I  must  know 
what  took  him  there." 


A  MONK  OF 


"  THE   SHATTERED   VASE   OP    LOVE'S    MOST   HOLY   VOWS  " 

PAUL  had  not  thought  of  ringing  for  lights,  and, 
save  around  the  fireplace,  the  room  was  wrapped  in 
solemn  darkness.  Father  Adrian's  chair  had  been 
amongst  the  shadows,  and  Paul  had  seen  nothing  save 
his  outline  since  they  had  entered  the  room.  But  now, 
his  curiosity  stirred  by  the  sudden  silence  of  the  priest, 
he  caught  up  the  poker,  and  broke  the  burning  log  in 
the  grate,  so  that  the  flames  threw  a  quick  light  on  his 
f!i,-e. 

Its  extreme  pallor  struck  him  forcibly.  It  was  a 
perfectly  bloodless  face,  and  the  dark  eyes,  as  black  as 
jet,  accentuated  its  pallor.  Yet  there  was  no  lack  of 
nervous  strength  or  emotion.  The  thin  lips  were  quiv- 
ering, and  the  eyes  were  soft  with  feeling.  Somehow, 
it  seemed  to  Paul  that  this  man's  interest  in  the  story 
which  he  had  come  to  tell  was  no  casual  one;  that  he 
himself  was  mixed  up  in  it,  in  a  manner  which  as  yet 
he  had  chosen  to  conceal.  His  colourless  face  was 
nlight  with  human  interest  and  sympathies.  Who  was 


' •  THE  SSA  TTERED  VASE  "  219 

this  priest,  and  why  had  he  come  so  far  to  tell  his  story  ? 
Paul  felt  that  a  mystery  lay  behind  it  all. 

"  You  must  not  think,"  Father  Adrian  commenced 
slowly,  "  that  your  father  told  me  the  whole  history  of 
his  life.  It  was  one  episode  only,  the  memory  of 
which  weighed  heavily  upon  him  as  death  drew  near. 
He  did  not  tell  me  all  concerning  it;  what  he  did  tell 
me  I  will  try  and  repeat  to  you. 

"  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  your 
arrival  that  he  called  me  to  his  bedside.  Only  a  few 
hours  ago  we  had  told  him  that  he  must  die,  and  since 
then  he  had  been  very  silent.  I  came  and  knelt  before 
him,  and  was  commencing  a  prayer,  when  he  stopped 
me. 

" '  I  want  you  to  listen  while  I  tell  you  one  of  the 
worst  actions  of  my  life,'  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  weak- 
ened by  the  suffering  through  which  he  had  passed. 
'  The  memory  of  it  has  haunted  me  always ;  it  is  the 
memory  of  it  which  has  brought  me  here.  I  am  not 
confessing  to  you,  mind!  only  after  I  have  told  you  this 
story,  I  want  you  to  pray  for  ma 

"  '  Thirty  years  ago  I  was  in  Palermo,  and  was  intro- 
duced there  to  the  Count  of  Cruta.  We  met  several 
times,  and  on  his  departure  he  invited  me  to  come  over 
here  for  a  week's  shooting.  I  was  wandering  about  on 
pleasure,  with  BO  fixed  plans,  and  I  did  not  hesitate  for 


220  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

a  moment.  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to  come, 
I  told  him,  and  accordingly  we  returned  here  together. 

"  'The  Count  was  a  widower  with  one  daughter, 
Irene.  For  a  young  man  I  was  not  particularly  im- 
pressionable, and  up  till  then  I  had  thought  very  little 
about  women.  Nevertheless, — perhaps,  I  should  say, 
all  the  more  for  that  reason, — I  fell  in  love  with  Irene. 
In  a  week's  time  I  had  all  but  told  her  so;  and  finding 
myself  alone  with  her  father  one  night  after  dinner,  I 
boldly  asked  him  for  her  hand.  Somewhat  to  my  sur- 
prise,— for  considering  the  difference  in  our  years,  we 
had  become  very  friendly, — he  refused  me  point-blank. 
The  first  reason  which  he  gave  staggered  me:  Irene 
was  already  engaged  to  a  Roumanian  nobleman,  who 
would  be  coming  soon  to  claim  her.  But  apart  from 
that,  he  went  on,  he  would  never  have  consented  to  the 
match  on  the  score  of  our  different  religions.  I  tried 
to  argue  with  him,  but  it  was  useless;  he  would  not 
even  discuss  the  matter.  His  daughter's  hand  was 
promised,  and  his  word  was  passed. 

"  '  On  the  morrow  I  appealed  to  Irene,  and  here  I 
met  with  more  success.  She  confessed  that  she  loved 
me,  and,  to  my  surprise,  she  consented  at  once  when  I 
proposed  that  she  should  run  away  with  me.  Our 
arrangements  were  made  in  haste  and  secrecy.  My 
yacht  lay  in  the  harbour,  and  at  midnight  Irene  stole 


"THE  SHATTERED  VASE"  221 

down  to  the  shore,  where  I  met  her,  and  re  wed  her  on 
board.  A  few  minutes  later  we  weighed  anchor  and 
steamed  away,  with  the  rusty  old  guns  from  the  castle 
firing  useless  shots  high  over  our  heads. 

"  '  I  want  to  make  my  story  as  short  as  I  can,  so  I 
will  not  attempt  to  offer  any  excuses  for  my  conduct,  or 
to  seek  to  palliate  it  in  any  way.  Irene  had  trusted 
herself  to  me,  and  I  betrayed  her  trust.  I  did  not 
marry  her.  She  did  not  leave  me;  she  did  not  even 
openly  upbraid  me;  but  nevertheless  it  hung  like  a 
dark  cloud  over  her  life.  By  degrees,  she  became 
altered.  She  tried  to  drown  her  memory  by  frivolity, 
by  all  manner  of  gaiety  and  excitement,  and  our  life 
in  Paris  afforded  her  many  opportunities. 

"  'The  old  Count  of  Cruta  made  two  efforts  to  rescue 
his  daughter  from  me.  The  first  time  he  came  alone; 
and  before  his  righteous  fury  I  was  for  a  moment 
abashed.  "  Give  me  back  my  daughter!"  he  thundered, 
with  his  back  to  my  closed  door,  and  a  pistol  pointed 
to  my  head.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  Irene  came,  dressed 
for  the  evening,  and  humming  a  light  opera  tune. 
Then  I  saw  to  what  depths  of  callousness  I  had  dragged 
her,  and  I  shuddered.  She  listened  to  the  old  man's 
stormy  eloquence,  and  when  he  had  finished  his  pas- 
sionate appeal,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly.  She 
was  perfectly  happy,  she  declared,  and  she  would  die 


222  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

sooner  than  go  back  to  that  triste  Cruta.  Had  he  had 
a  pleasant  journey  ?  she  asked,  and  would  he  stay  and 
dine  ?  I  saw  her  father  shudder,  and  the  words  seemed 
frozen  upon  his  lips.  He  looked  at  her  in  perfect 
silence  for  a  full  minute ••— looked  at  her  from  head  to 
foot,  at  her  soft  white  dress,  with  its  floating  sea  of 
dainty  draperies,  and  at  the  diamonds  on  her  neck  and 
bosom.  Then  his  eye  seemed  to  blaze  with  anger. 

"  '  "Girl!"  he  cried  sternly,  "you  have  dragged 
down  into  the  mire  one  of  the  proudest  names  in 
Europe!  Curse  you  for  it!  As  for  you,  sir,"  he  added, 
turning  to  me,  "you  are  a  dishonoured  scoundrel!  a 
cur!" 

"  'He  was  right!  I  was  a  blackguard.  But  had  it 
not  been  for  those  last  words  of  his,  I  should  straight- 
way have  offered  to  have  married  Irene  on  the  morrow. 
The  words  were  on  my  lips,  but  the  contempt  of  that 
monosyllable  maddened  me.  The  better  impulse 
passed  away. 

"  '  "  You  should  have  given  her  to  me  when  I  asked 
for  her  hand,"  I  answered,  "  You  cur! "  he  repeated. 
I  looked  at  him  steadily.  "You  are  an  old  man,"  I 
said,  "  or  I  should  throw  you  down  my  stairs.  Now 
go!  Irene  has  nothing  to  say  to  you,  nor  have  I." 

"  '  He  lingered  on  the  threshold  for  a  moment,  sur- 
veying us  both  with  a  calm  dignity,  before  which  I 
felt  ashamed. 


'""As you  remind  me,  I  am  an  eld  man,"  he  said 
quietly,  "and  I  have,  alas,  no  son  to  chastise  you  as 
you  deserve.  But  the  season  of  old  age  is  the  season 
of  prophecy  !  Listen,  Martin  de  Vaux,"  pointing  to- 
wards me,  "  you  shall  taste  the  bitterest  dregs  of  sor- 
row and  remorse  in  the  days  to  come,  for  this  your  evil 
deed.  You  may  scoff,  both  of  you, — you  may  say  to 
yourselves  that  an  old  man's  words  are  words  of  folly, 
—but  the  day  will  come  !  It  is  writ  in  the  book  of 
fate,  and  my  eyes  have  seen  it  !  Pile  sin  upon  sin, 
and  pleasure  upon  pleasure  ;  say  to  yourselves,  *  let  us 
eat  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  shall  die  ! '  For 
so  it  is  written,  and  my  eyes  have  seen  it !" 

"  '  He  was  gone  almost  before  the  echo  of  his  words 
had  died  away.  I  called  after  him,  but  there  was  no 
answer  but  the  sound  of  a  shutting  door.  I  looked  at 
Irene ;  she  was  calmly  buttoning  her  glove. 

'""The  carriage  is  waiting,"  she  reminded  me 
coolly. 

"  '  I  gave  her  my  arm,  and  laughed.  We  drove  to 
the  opera.' " 


224  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 


"A   BECKONING   VOICE    FKOM    OUT    A    SHADOWY    LAND 

MIDNIGHT  rang  solemnly  out  from  the  Abbey  clock. 
The  priest  paused  in  his  story  to  count  the  strokes, 
and  Paul  drew  out  his  watch  with  an  incredulous 
gesture. 

"You  must  stay  here  to-night,"  he  said  ;  "  it  will  be 
too  late  for  you  to  leave." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  a  room  to  be  pre- 
pared. Father  Adrian,  who  had  been  lost  in  a  fit  of 
deep  abstraction,  looked  up  and  shook  his  head  as  the 
servant  quitted  the  room.  "I  shall  not  stay  here,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  It  is  impossible." 

Paul  pointed  to  the  clock.  "  You  have  more  to  tell 
me,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  already  late.  If  you  are  stay- 
ing at  the  monastery  of  St.  Bernard,  it  is  nearly  eight 
miles  away,  and  you  cannot  possibly  return." 

"  I  have  not  so  far  to  go,"  Father  Adrian  answered, 
"  and  this  is  the  hour  I  always  choose  for  walking. 
Do  you  wish  to  hear  the  rest  of  your  father's  eonfes- 
sion  ?  " 


"A  BECKONING  VOICE  n  825 

Paul  stood  on  the  hearthrug  with  bowed  h«ad  and 
folded  arms.  "  I  am  ready  ! "  he  said  ;  "  go  on  ! " 

Father  Adrian  remained  silent  for  nearly  a  quarter 
of  an  hour ;  then  he  recommenced  his  story. 

"'From  the  time  of  the  old  Count's  visit,'  your 
father  went  on,  '  I  noticed  a  gradual  change  in  Irene. 
She  grew  thin  and  pale  and  nervous,  disliking  more 
and  more,  every  day,  to  go  out,  and  becoming  suddenly 
averse  to  all  our  previous  pursuits  and  pleasures.  We 
mixed  amongst  a  Bohemian  set  in  Paris,  and  we  had  a 
good  many  acquaintances  of  a  certain  sort.  Amongst 
them  was  a  man  whom  I  always  disliked,  yet  who  man- 
aged somehow  to  establish  himself  upon  terms  of  inti- 
macy with  us.  His  name  was  Count  Victor  Ferdinand 
Hirsf  eld,  and  his  nationality  was  rather  a  puzzle  to  me, 
for  he  chose  to  maintain,  without  any  apparent  reason, 
a  sort  of  mystery  about  it.  With  Irene  he  was  ever 
more  intimate  than  with  me,  and  more  than  once 
I  noticed  references  in  their  conversation  which 
seemed  to  point  to  some  previous  acquaintance  between 
them.  I  asked  Irene  no  questions,  for  I  trusted  her 
but  I  watched  Count  Hirsf  eld  closely.  I  felt  convinced 
that,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  he  was  trying  to  win 
Irene  from  me,  and  though  I  never  for  one  moment  be- 
lieved that  he  would  succeed,  I  was  anxious  to  obtain 
some  proof  of  his  intentions,  that  I  might  punish  him. 


228  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Often  after  his  visits,  which  seemed  to  be  carefully 
chosen  for  a  time  at  which  I  was  nearly  certain  to  be 
out,  I  found  Irene  in  tears; but  when  I  sought  to  make 
her  explain,  she  had  always  some  excuse. 

"  'We  had  lived  together  for  three  years  when,  with- 
out any  warning,  Irene  left  me.  I  came  home  one 
night  from  a  dinner  at  the  English  Embassy,  and 
found  her  gone.  There  was  no  message,  not  a  single 
line  of  adieu,  not  a  ghost  of  a  clew  by  which  I  could 
trace  her.  It  was  a  shock  to  me;  but  when  the  first 
wrench  was  over,  I  knew  that  it  was  something  of  a  re- 
lief. In  my  heart  I  was  tired  of  the  irregular  life  we 
had  been  leading,  and  longing  to  return  to  England 
and  my  old  home.  Irene  herself  was  no  longer  dear 
to  me.  While  she  had  remained  faithful  to  me,  I  had 
considered  myself,  in  a  certain  sense,  bound  to  her,  al- 
though the  bonds  had  commenced  to  gall.  Now  that 
she  had  left  me  of  her  own  accord,  I  was  free.  I  troubled 
little  as  to  what  had  become  of  her;  youth  is  always 
selfish.  She  had  either  gone  home  to  her  father,  or 
had  run  away  with  Count  Hirsfeld,  I  determined  at 
once.  Of  the  two,  I  was  inclined  to  believe  the  latter, 
from  the  fact  of  her  having  left  no  message  for  me, 
and  also  as  I  found  that  he  too  had  quitted  Paris  sud- 
denly. I  purposely  did  not  attempt  to  find  out,  for  had 
I  discovered  the  latter  to  be  true,  I  should  have  felt 


" A  BECKONING  VOICE"  227 

bound  to  call  Count  Hirsfeld  out  the  next  time  I  met 
him,  and  I  hated  duelling.  So,  with  a  light  heart,  I 
disposed  of  my  Paris  establishment,  selling  even  the 
house,  and  everything  likely  to  remind  me  of  a  page  of 
my  history  which  I  desired  to  blot  out. 

"  '  I  returned  to  England,  and  settled  down  at  Vaux 
Abbey.  In  a  few  mouths  my  life  with  Irene  lay  back 
in  the  past,  like  a  troubled  dream,  and  I  did  my  best 
to  forget  it.  It  was  all  hateful  and  tiresome  to  me. 
My  mind  was  full  now  of  healthier  and  more  whole- 
some thoughts  and  purposes.  I  felt  like  a  man  com- 
mencing life  anew.  Even  my  conscience  had  almost 
ceased  to  trouble  me.  Irene  had  left  me  of  her  own 
will,  nor  had  she  been  driven  to  it  by  any  unkindness 
,  on  my  part.  I  would  forget  her.  I  had  the  right  to 
forget  her. 

"  '  About  six  months  had  passed,  and  I  was  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  my  altered  life.  One  night,  when 
the  Abbey  was  full  of  guests,  a  servant  whispered  in 
my  ear,  as  we  sat  at  dinner,  that  a  gentleman, — a 
foreigner,  the  man  believed — had  just  been  driven  over 
from  the  nearest  railway  station,  and  was  in  the  library 
wailing  to  see  me.  I  knew  in  a  moment  that  some 
sort  of  a  resurrection  of  that  buried  past  was  at  hand ; 
and  though  I  nodded  carelessly  and  kept  my  counten- 
an  e,  my  heart  sank  like  lead,  As  soon  as  I  could 


228  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 

make  an  excuse,  I  left  the  table,  with  a  brief  apology  to 
my  guests,  and  made  my  way  to  the  library. 

"  '  I  had  expected  to  find  there  Irene's  father.  Judge 
of  my  surprise  when  I  found  Count  Hirsfeld  advancing 
to  meet  me,  pale  and  travel-stained,  from  the  shadows 
of  the  room.  I  stopped  short,  and  stood  with  my  hands 
behind  me. 

"'"Mr.  de  Vaux,  I  bring  you  a  letter,"  he  said 
simply;  "  I  am  here  as  a  messenger,  and  as  a  messen- 
ger only.  Nothing  but  the  prayers  of  a  dying  woman 
would  have  induced  me  to  stand  beneath  your  roof!  " 

"  '  "  Your  presence  certainly  needs  some  explana- 
tion," I  answered  coldly.  "Give  me  the  letter!" 

"  '  He  handed  it  over,  and  I  took  it  to  the  lamplight. 
The  handwriting  seemed  unfamiliar  to  me ;  but  when  I  • 
glanced  at  the  last  page,   I   saw  that  it  was  signed 
"  Irene."     I  read  it  through  hastily. 

"  CBUTA. 
"  MARTIN: — 

"  I  left  you  meaning  never  to  speak  or  write  your 
name  again,  but  fate  has  been  too  strong  for  me.  When 
you  see  my  handwriting,  you  may  fear  that  I  want  to 
burden  you  once  more  with  my  presence,  which  has 
grown  so  wearisome  to  you!  You  need  not!  Soon 
there  will  be  nothing  left  of  me  but  a  memory;  evei? 
that  I  know  will  not  survive  long.  For  I  am  dying. 


"A  BECKONING  VOICE"  239 

Life  is  only  a  matter  of  days  arid  hours  with  me  now. 
For  me,  only  a  few  more  suns  will  rise  and  set.  I  am 
lying,  else  I  had  not  taken  up  my  pen  to  write  to  you. 

-'  Martin,  one's  last  hours  are  a  time  for  plain  speak- 
ing. I  ha-v-e  never  suffered  one  word  of  reproach  to 
pass  my  lipi^  but  you  have  wronged  me  deeply !  You 
have  turned  what  should  have  been  the  sweetness  of 
my  life  into  bitterness  and  gall.  I  do  not  remind  you 
of  this  to  heap  Idle  reproaches  on  your  head;  I  remind 
you  of  it  simply  because  on  my  deathbed  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  what  Jn  the  past  I  scorned  to  do.  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  marry  me. 

"I  could  not  hope  to  make  you  understand  all  that 
I  have  suffered  during  these  last  few  months  of  my  ill- 
ness. I  would  not  if  I  could.  It  is  not  worth  while! 
My  father,  although  he  knows  that  I  am  dying,  will 
scarcely  speak  to  me.  He  has  forgotten  that  I  am  his 
daughter,  save  when  he  laments  it.  He  sits  alone  day 
by  day,  brooding  upon  the  dishonour  of  his  race.  The 
priebt,  who  prays  for  me,  speaks  words  of  doubtful 
comfort,  as  though,  after  all,  he  doubted  whether  sal- 
vation were  possible  for  me.  The  horror  of  it  all  has 
entered  into  my  soul  !  The  sin  of  the  past  is  ever  be- 
fore my  eyes, — black  and  threatening, — and  a  great 
desolation  reigns  in  my  heart. 

"  And  from  it  all  I  turn  to  you,  Martin,  to  save  ine  ! 


230  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

You  can  do  it  !  You  only  !  You  lose  nothing  !  You 
risk  nothing !  and  you  will  throw  some  faint  light  of 
consolation  upon  this,  my  dreary  passage  through  the 
shadow-land  of  death.  Once  you  loved  me,  far  off  and 
dim  though  that  time  may  seem  to  you.  You  would  be 
faithful  always,  you  swore,  as  side  by  side  we  stood  on 
board  your  yacht  on  the  night  of  our  flight,  and 
watched  the  shores  of  Cruta  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer, 
and  the  white-faced  dawn  break  quivering  upon  the 
waters.  You  would  be  faithful  always!  The  words 
come  back  to  me  as  I  lie  here  in  this  great,  dreary  bed- 
chamber, with  a  cold-faced  priest  muttering  comfort- 
less prayers  by  my  side;  dying  alone,  without  a  single 
kindly  face  to  lighten  my  passage  to  the  grave.  Yet, 
do  not  read  this  as  a  reproach !  Read  it  only  as  the 
prelude  to  this  my  last  appeal  to  you  !  Marry  me, 
Martin  !  It  would  cost  you  so  little:  just  a  hurried 
journey  here,  a  few  sentences  over  my  bedside,  a  week's 
waiting  at  the  most,  and  you  could  see  me  in  my  grave, 
and  feel  yourself  free  again.  Is  it  too  great  a  thing 
to  do,  to  make  light  the  heart  of  a  dying  woman  ?  I 
pray  God  that  you  may  not  think  so  !  You  have  gen- 
erosity !  I  appeal  to  it !  Come,  I  beseech  you  !  It  is 
the  prayer  of  a  dying  woman  !  I  summon  you  to 
Cruta  I 

"IRENE." 


"A  BECKONING  VOICE"  231 

" '  Back  again  in  the  meshes  of  my  old  sin.  The 
letter  fluttered  down  from  between  my  fingers  on  to  the 
floor,  and  I  stood  with  folded  arms  and  bowed  head, 
arraigned  at  the  bar  of  my  own  judgment.  I  had  mar- 
red a  girl's  fair  young  life!  The  memory  of  those  old 
days — my  passionate  persuasions  and  prayers — swept 
in  upon  me.  Yes!  she  had  trusted  me,  and  I  had  de- 
ceived her  !  Her  sin  and  her  death  lay  at  my  door! 
The  hideous  rascality  of  the  thing  oppressed  me.  I  had 
been  false  to  my  name  and  traditions. 

"  '  A  cold,  low  voice  from  the  other  end  of  the  room 
broke  in  upon  my  surging  thoughts.  It  was  Count 
Hirsfeld  who  spoke. 

"  '  "  Forgive  me  for  disturbing  your  doubtless  pleas- 
ant reflections,  but  time  flies,  and  time  is  very  precious 
to  me  just  now.  I  await  your  answer." 

"  '  "It  is  not  necessary,"  I  replied;  "  I  shall  toe  at 
Oruta  before  you  !  " 


232  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


"  LATE   THOU   COMEST,  CRUEL   THOU   HABT   BEEN " 

"  *  I  SPED  through  England  and  across  the  Continent 
southwards  as  fast  as  express  train  and  steamer  could 
carry  me.  Count  Hirsfeld  shared  the  special  which 
carried  me  from  our  nearest  country  station  to  the 
Great  Northern  junction,  from  whence  the  Scotch  mail 
bore  us  to  London.  Here  we  parted  company,  travell- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  way  separately.  On  the 
evening  of  the  second  day,  the  steamer  which  I  had 
hired  at  Palermo  dropped  anchor  in  the  bay  of  Cruta, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  grim,  black  castle;  and  a 
small  rowing-boat  landed  me  beneath  the  cliffs  before 
night  fell. 

'"I  made  my  way  up  the  narrow,  winding  path 
alone,  and  passing  across  the  paved  courtyard,  rang  the 
hoarse,  brazen  bell  at  the  principal  entrance.  A  serv- 
ant, bearing  a  torch,  had  opened  the  door,  and  was 
beckoning  me  to  follow  him  long  before  its  echoes  had 
died  away. 

" ' "  Mademoiselle  Irene  ! "  I  asked  him,  in  a  hushed, 
anxious  tone.  "  She  lives  ?  " 

"  * "  She  lives  I  "  he  repeated  sombrely. 


"LATE  THOU  COMEST'  283 

"  *  I  followed  him  along  the  wide  stone  corridors,  and 
up  countless  steps.  At  last  he  paused  before  a  door, 
and  after  listening  for  a  moment,  knocked  softly  at  it. 

"  *  It  was  opened  by  a  monk,  whose  face  was  hidden 
by  the  folds  of  his  deep 'cowl.  He  motioned  me  to  en- 
ter,  and  immediately  closed  the  door. 

" '  I  found  myself  in  a  spacious,  lofty  bedchamber, 
bare  and  dimly  lit.  Facing  me  two  pale,  solemn-vis- 
aged  monks  stood  on  either  side  of  a  drawn  curtain,  as 
though  guarding  the  plain  iron  bed  which  lay  beyond, 
and  towards  which  I  had  taken  one  impulsive  step  for- 
ward. Their  presence,  and  an  indefinable  gloom, — be- 
yond even  the  gloom  of  a  chamber  of  death, — which  in 
the  dim  twilight  seemed  to  hang  about  the  very  air  of 
the  place,  chilled  me.  There  was  little  furniture,  and 
no  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls,  save  a  wooden  cross 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  before  which  two  candles  were 
burning.  I  looked  around  for  some  one  to  whom  I 
could  address  myself,  but  there  was  no  one  beyond 
these  dark-coated,  silent  monks,  who  seemed  more  like 
shadows  from  another  world. 

'"While  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  hesitat- 
ing, the  priest  who  had  admitted  me  passed  by  and 
took  up  his  station  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  mo- 
tioned me  to  stand  a  little  nearer,  and  suddenly  the 
drear  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  by  the  low,  mo- 
notonous chant  of  prayers.  I  bowed  my  head,  and 


234  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

kneeling  by  the  bedside  I  took  up  the  responses,  and 
once  for  a  moment  clasped  the  white,  cold  hand  which 
lay  upon  the  coverlet,  and  which  was  all  that  I  could 
see  of  the  woman  whom  I  was  making  my  wife. 

" '  The  ceremony  seems  to  me  now  like  some  far- 
distant  dream,  of  which  I  retain  only  the  vaguest  rec- 
ollection. When  it  was  all  over,  I  laid  my  hand  upon 
the  curtain  to  draw  it  back,  but  the  monk  nearest  to 
me  held  my  hand  in  a  vise-like  grip,  and  before  I  could 
move,  a  voice  from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where 
the  shadows  were  deepest,  arrested  me. 

"'"Touch  that  curtain,  or  dare  to  look  upon  my 
daughter's  face,  Martin  de  Vaux,  and  you  die!  For 
her  soul's  sake  I  have  permitted  this!  Now  go! " 

"  'I  peered  through  the  darkness,  and  I  saw  the  tall, 
gaunt  frame  of  the  Count  of  Cruta  standing  near  the 
entrance.  I  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"  '  "  Irene  is  my  wife,"  I  answered.  "  I  offer  no  ex- 
cuse to  you  for  my  conduct,  but  at  least  I  have  the 
right  to  try  and  win  her  forgiveness." 

"  '  He  moved  a  step  forward,  and  his  voice  shook  with 
passion.  "  You  have  no  rights!  You  are  dishonoured! 
You  are  a  villain!  What!  you  to  reason  with  me  un- 
der my  own  roof !  Away !  Out  of  my  sight,  lest  I  for- 
get my  word  and  deal  you  out  your  deserts! " 

"  My  heart  was  hot  with  shame  and  auger,  but  I 
lingered.  "Let  her  speak,"  I  answered,  pointing  to 


"LATE  THOU  COME8T"  235 

the  bed.  "  It  is  she  against  whom  I  have  sinned,  and 
her  word  I  will  obey.  Irene!  may  I  not  stay  by  your 
side?  Tell  me  that  you  forgive!" 

"  'I  clutched  passionately  at  the  curtain,  resolved  to 
tear  it  aside,  and  plead  with  Irene  upon  my  knees. 
But  I  was  held  from  behind  in  a  strong,  vise-like  grasp, 
and  one  of  the  monks  who  stood  there  on  guard  sternly 
wrested  the  curtain  from  my  hands. 

"'"Away  with  him! "cried  the  Count,  his  voice 
shaking  with  passion.  "Rudolph,  do  you  hear!" 

"  '  I  nerved  myself  for  a  struggle,  but  in  that  mo- 
ment's pause  a  thin,  white  hand  stole  from  behind  the 
curtain  and  held  mine  for  a  moment. 

"'"Martin,  go  quickly!"  said  a  faint,  weak  voice, 
so  altered  that  I  scarcely  recognised  it  as  the  voice  of 
Irene.  "  It  is  my  wish — my  command." 

"'"One  word,  Irene!"  I  cried,  struggling  to  free 
myself.  "  Just  one  word !  " 

'""Farewell!" 

"  '  "  Irene,  you  are  my  wife.  Have  you  nothing  else 
to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"'"Farewell!" 

"  '  There  was  no  sweetness,  no  regret  in  that  single 
word.     I  bowed  my  head  in  despair  and  went.' ' 
****** 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Father  Adrian  was  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair  with  half-closed  eyes,  as  though 


sto  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

exhausted.  Paul,  standing  opposite  to  him,  motionless 
and  silent  as  a  figure  of  stone,  was  listening  to  every 
word  with  grave,  anxious  face. 

"Will  you  hear  the  rest  of  the  story  now?"  the 
priest  asked  after  a  prolonged  silence. 

Paul  bowed  his  head.  "  I  am  waiting,"  he  said 
simply. 

"  I  will  continue,  then,  in  your  father's  own  words  as 
near  as  possible.  This  is  what  he  told  me." 

"  'I  lingered  in  the  island  for  several  days,  staying 
at  the  monastery,  unwilling  to  go  away,  and  yet  frus- 
trated in  every  attempt  I  made  to  enter  the  castle.  On 
the  fourth  day,  at  sunrise,  I  was  awakened  suddenly 
by  the  deep  tolling  of  the  castle  bell.  I  dressed 
hastily,  and  hurried  up  there ;  but  I  was  thrust  from 
the  door,  and  forbidden  to  enter.  I  learned  the  truth, 
however,  from  one  of  the  servants.  Irene  was  dead. 
On  the  next  day  I  saw  the  little  funeral  procession 
start  from  the  castle,  and  directly  they  entered  the 
grounds  of  the  monastery  I  joined  them.  The  old 
Count,  bowed  and  aged  with  grief,  stayed  the  cere- 
mony, and  bade  them,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  his  old 
anger,  thrust  me  from  the  place.  But  the  priest  by 
whose  side  I  had  taken  my  stand  raised  his  hand,  and 
forbade  them  to  touch  me.  I  was  in  sanctuary, — my 
feet  were  on  holy  ground — and  though  the  Count  of 


"LATE  THOU  COMEST"  387 

Cruta,  and  Count  Hirsfeld  who  knelt  by  his  side, 
trembled  with  anger  at  my  presence,  I  remained,  and 
on  my  knees  by  my  wife's  grave  I  uttered  the  first 
prayer  my  lips  had  framed  since  childhood.  Through 
the  pine  trees  which  fringed  the  cliffs,  I  could  see  the 
path  where  she  and  I  had  met  in  the  days  when  I  was 
her  father's  guest,  and  when  I  had  knelt  at  her  feet  a 
passionate  lover.  The  sunlight  flashed  upon  the  blue 
waters  below,  and  the  seabirds  flew  screaming  around 
our  heads.  It  was  all  just  as  it  had  been  in  the  old 
days;  the  same  for  me,  but  never  more  for  her.  The 
long  black  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  and  rev- 
erently Count  Hirsfeld  stepped  forward  and  covered  it 
with  armfuls  of  exquisite  white  flowers,  whose  perfume 
made  faint  the  odorous  air.  And  I  had  no  flowers  to 
throw,  nothing  but  the  tribute  of  a  passionate  grieft 
and  a  heart  well-nigh  broken  with  sorrow  and  remorse. 
" '  The  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  black-robed 
monks  and  priest  had  passed  away  in  a  long,  solemn 
procession.  Her  father,  Count  Hirsfeld,  and  I  re- 
nraiued  there  alone;  and  over  Irene's  grave  I  leaned 
forward,  speaking  gently  and  humbly  to  him,  praying 
for  one  word  of  forgiveness.  His  only  answer  was  a 
look  of  scorn,  and  he  turned  away  from  me  with  loath- 
ing. He  would  not  hear  me  speak.  To  him,  I  was 
his  daughter's  murderer. 


238  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

"'I  left  the  island  that  night,  and  returned  to 
England.  For  several  years  I  lived  a  very  retired  life, 
attending  to  my  duties  upon  the  estate  and  seldom 
travelling  beyond  it.  The  memory  of  Irene  seemed  to 
haunt  me.  But  as  time  went  on,  a  change  came  over 
my  spirits.  I  was  young ;  and  although  I  still  bitterly 
regretted  the  past,  its  influence  became  weaker  and 
weaker.  What  was  done  could  not  be  undone;  such 
reparation  as  was  possible  I  had  made.  Brooding 
over  my  sin  would  never  make  it  the  less.  I  reasoned 
thus  with  myself,  and  the  final  result  was  inevitable. 
I  commenced  to  mix  more  with  my  fellows,  to  look  up 
my  old  friends  in  town, — in  fact,  to  take  up  again  the 
threads  of  my  life,  which  I  had  once  regarded  as 
broken  for  ever. 

"  '  After  a  while  I  married ;  and  then,  more  than 
ever,  Irene  and  that  portion  of  my  past  which  was 
bound  up  with  her  seemed  like  some  vague,  far-distant 
nightmare,  fast  assuming  a  very  remote  place  in  my 
thoughts.  I  loved  my  wife  as  I  had  never  loved 
Irene,  and  for  a  time  I  was  intensely  happy.  A  son 
was  born  to  me,  and  in  my  joy  I  feasted  half  the 
county  at  Vaux  Abbey.  I  had  desired  nothing  so 
much  as  this,  for  the  De  Vaux  estates  and  mines,  im- 
mense as  they  are,  are  all  strictly  entailed.  A  son 
was  wanted  to  complete  my  happiness,  and  a  son  I  had. 


"LATE  THOU  C'OMEST"  239 

But  already,  although  I  knew  it  not,  a  storm  was  gath- 
ering for  me. 

"  'It  was  about  a  fortnight  after  the  festivities,  and 
I  had  just  come  in  with  some  friends  from  an  after- 
noon's shooting,  when  I  was  told  that  a  gentleman 
from  abroad — the  servant  believed — was  waiting  to 
see  me  in  the  library.  Even  as  he  spoke  the  words  I 
seemed  to  know  who  it  was.  My  heart  sank,  and  the 
presentiment  of  some  coming  evil  was  strong  upon 
me.  I  hesitated,  and  then,  feverishly  anxious  to  know 
the  worst,  I  turned  away  with  some  careless  excuse  to 
ray  guests  and  entered  the  library. 

"  '  It  was  Count  Hirsfeld  who  stood  there  waiting  for 
my  arrival,  with  a  calm,  evil  smile  upon  his  lips, 
which  instinctively  I  felt  to  be  the  herald  of  some  com- 
ing trouble  for  me.  Yet  my  courage  did  not  altogether 
desert  me. 

" ' "  Count  Hirsfeld,  your  presence  here  demands 
an  immediate  explanation  ,"  I  said  sternly.  "  Had  I 
been  at  home,  you  would  not  have  been  admitted." 

"  '  "  I  come,"  he  answered  slowly,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
steadily  upon  my  face,  "  as  an  ambassador  from  your 
wife." 

"  '  "  From  my  wife! "  I  repeated.  "  You  do  not  know 
her!  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  *  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "  I  regret  that  my 


240  A  MONK  OF  CBUTA 

meaning  is  not  clear,"  he  said.  "  I  repeat  that  I  come 
as  an  ambassador  from  your  wife,  Irene  de  Vaux.  I 
have  brought  you  a  message  frem  her." 

"  '  A  message  from  the  dead!  "  I  gasped. 

"'"Dead!  By  no  means!"  he  answered,  with  a 
stew,  cruel  smile.  "Irene  is  living!  Is  it  possible  that 
you  did  not  know  it  ?  "  '  " 


"GRIM  FIG UR&S"  241 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

"  GRIM    FIGURES    TRACED    BY    SORROW'S    FIERY    HAND" 

THE  lamp  which  stood  on  Paul's  writing-table  had 
gone  out,  and  only  a  few  dull  red  embers  remained  in 
the  grate.  By  moving  a  single  yard  backwards,  Paul 
was  almost  lost  in  the  deep  shadows  which  hung  about 
the  room,  whilst  such  light  as  there  was  fell  directly 
upon  the  priest's  pale  face.  During  those  last 
few  moments  his  voice  had  grown  a  shade  more 
solemn — more  intense.  Paul,  who  stood  looking  out 
at  him  from  the  darkness  with  dazed  senses,  like  a  man 
in  a  dream,  never  doubted  for  an  instant,  although  per- 
haps he  scarcely  realized  the  full  meaning  of  the  story 
to  which  he  was  listening. 

"It  must  have  been  in  this  very  room,"  Father 
Adrian  continued,  looking  around  him, "that  your  father 
and  Count  Hirsfeld  stood  face  to  face.  But  you  are 
naturally  impatient.  I  will  take  up  the  story  again  in 

your  father's  own  words  to  me. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  *  It  was  several  moments  before  I  could  collect 
myself  sufficiently  to  answer  Count  Hirsfeld.  Every- 


242  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

thing  seemed  dim  and  unreal  around  me.  Only  that 
calm,  mocking  face  remained  steadfast,  and  his  words 
rang  in  my  ears. 

'""It  is  a  lie!"  I  gasped.  "We  stood  together 
by  her  grave!  She  is  dead!  " 

"  '  The  calmness  suddenly  vanished  from  my  tormen- 
tor's face  and  manner.  His  eyes  were  ablaze  with 
mingled  triumph  and  hate.  "  You  thought  so,  you  poor 
fool!  "  he  hissed  out  at  me  across  the  table.  "  Bah !  you 
were  a  fool!  You  were  easily  deceived!  Listen! 

" ' "  You  thought  it  a  light  thing  to  carry  off  the 
only  daughter  of  the  last  Count  of  Cruta.  'Twas  easily 
done,  no  doubt;  but  you  made  for  yourself  enemies 
of  men  from  whose  vengeance  you  were  bound  to  suf- 
fer. One  was  the  Count  whose  daughter  you  had  dis- 
honoured, and  whose  proud  name  you  disgraced ;  the 
other  was  myself,  the  man  whom  she  was  to  have  mar- 
ried— myself,  who  loved  her!  Do  you  think  that  be- 
cause I  did  not  seek  you  out  and  shoot  you  as  you 
deserved,  that  I  forgot?  There  were  men  on  the  island 
who  loved  their  lord,  and  who  at  the  word  from  him 
would  have  hunted  you  down  and  murdered  you.  If 
he  restrained  them,  do  you  imagine  he  was  willing  to 
bear  this  great  dishonour  without  striking  a  blow? 
Bah!  it  was  my  word  that  said'  wait,'  my  counsel  which 
saved  you  from  death  as  too  light  a  punishment.  There 
is  another  way,  I  said.  So  we  waited. 


«« GRIM  FIG  UHES"  243 

"  '  "  It  was  my  persuasions  which  induced  Irene  to 
leave  you  and  return  to  her  father.  It  was  I  who 
pointed  out  to  her  your  great  selfishness,  and  raised  in 
her  the  longing  for  revenge !  It  was  I  who  laid  the 
plot  into  which  you  fell. 

"  '  "  A  few  words  more!  It  is  all  so  simple!  Irene 
was  about  to  become  a  mother ;  and  you,  believing  her 
to  be  on  her  deathbed,  married  her.  The  child  was 
born  on  the  next  day — your  son  and  heir !  Meanwhile, 
Irene's  waiting  maid,  who  had  been  for  long  in  a  con- 
sumption, died.  It  was  her  funeral  which  you  attended 
with  such  interesting  penitence.  Irene  herself  was 
fast  recovering;  she  was  never  in  any  real  danger. 
She  lives  with  her  old  father,  and  the  boy  lives  with 
her.  We  waited!  We  read  of  your  marriage,  and  the 
Count  cried,  'Let  us  strike! '  But  I  said,  'No,  let  us 
wait!'  Time  went  on.  We  read  again  of  the  birth 
of  a  son  and  heir  to  you,  and  of  the  great  rejoicings. 
Irene  held  your  boy  in  her  arms,  and  she  frowned. 
'  Go  now,'  she  commanded,  '  tell  Martin  de  Vaux  that 
his  son  and  heir  is  here,  and  his  wife  is  here!  Tell 
him  that  they  are  weary  of  his  absence.'  So  I  came!  " 

"  '  There  was  a  dead  silence.  My  throat  and  lips 
were  dry ;  I  could  not  speak.  Connt  Hirsfeld  watched 
me  with  folded  arms.  It  was  his  vengeance! 

"'"It  is  not  true!"  I  stammered  out  at  last.  "I 
will  not  believe  it.  Irene  is  dead! " 


244  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  '  I  tried  to  speak  confidently,  but  I  failed.  In  my 
heart  I  believed  the  Count. 

"  *  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  have  rea- 
son," he  remarked.  "Why  should  you  believe  me? 
Come  to  Cruta,  and  you  will  see  for  yourself.  You 
can  see  the  headstone  at  the  foot  of  the  grave:  '  Sacred 
to  the  memory  of  Marie,  faithful  servant  of  Irene  of 
Cruta.'  You  can  see  the  doctor  who  attended  her  and 
your  wife  at  the  same  time!  Better  still,  you  can  see 
your  wife  and  your  infant  son !  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

'""I  will  not  go!"  I  cried  passionately.  "I  will 
not  see  them!  It  was  base  treachery!" 

" '  "  One  must  use  the  weapons  of  craft  against  vil- 
lains," he  said.  "  There  is  no  baseness  to  equal 
yours.  You  are  repaid  in  your  own  coin;  that  is  all." 

"  '  I  sank  into  a  chair.  The  insult  moved  me  to  no 
fit  of  anger.  I  was  numbed. 

"  '  "  If  this  be  true,"  I  asked,  "  what  does  Irene  ask 
for?  I  will  not  go  back  to  her,  or  see  her,  or  acknowl- 
edge her  in  any  way.  She  can  have  money,  that  is 
all!" 

"  '  "  Naturally,  she  requires  an  allowance,"  Count 
Hirsfeld  answered,  "and  a  large  one,  to  enable  her  to 
bring  up  her  son  in  accordance  with  his  position! " 

"'"She  shall  have  the  allowance;  she  shall  have 
what  sh«  asks  for,"  I  declared;  "but  I  will  never 


"GRIM  FIGURES*  245 

acknowledge  the  boy,  or  her.  If  he  takes  the  name  of 
De  Vaux,  or  forces  himself  upon  me  in  any  way,  it 
shall  be  open  war.  The  English  courts  will  annul  that 
marriage." 

"  *  "  I  think  not,"  he  answered  coolly.  "  Besides, 
you  married  into  a  noble  family,  did  you  not — a  duke's 
daughter?  How  pleasant  her  position  would  be  while 
such  a  case  was  being  tried!  And  your  son " 

" '  I  stopped  him  angrily.  "  I  repeat  that  I  will 
not  acknowledge  them.  Money  they  can  have,  and 
the  boy's  future  shall  be  my  care!  But  not  if  he  ever 
dares  to  call  himself  De  Yaux." 

"  *  The  Count  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  am  but 
an  ambassador,"  he  said.  "I  will  convey  what  you 
have  said  to  your  wife.  You  shall  hear  her  decision." 

"  'He  went  away,  and  for  a  fortnight  I  was  left  in 
misery.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  had  a  letter  signed 
"Irene."  It  was  cold  and  short.  It  told  me  that,  so 
far  as  she  herself  was  concerned,  she  had  no  desire  or 
intention  of  claiming  her  position  as  my  wife.  All  she 
demanded  was  an  allowance  to  be  paid  to  her  order  at 
a  certain  bank  in  Palermo  at  regular  intervals  for  the 
support  of  herself  and  for  the  proper  education  and 
bringing  up  of  her  son.  As  to  his  future,  she  could 
not  pledge  herself  to  anything;  for  when  the  time 
came,  he  should  decide  for  himself.  She  would  bring 


246  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

him  up  in  ignorance;  but  on  his  twenty-fifth  birthday 
she  should  tell  him  the  whole  story,  and  place  all  the 
necessary  papers  in  his  hands.  If  he  chose  to  use 
them  and  claim  the  De  Yaux  estates,  he  would  easily 
be  able  to  do  so.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  decided  to 
remain  as  he  was,  she  should  not  attempt  in  any  way 
to  alter  his  decision ! 

"  *  The  letter  was  a  great  relief  to  me.  Five-and- 
twenty  years  was  a  long  respite.  The  boy  might  die 
— a  thousand  things  might  happen  before  then.  At 
any  rate,  I  was  enough  of  a  philosopher  to  seal  down 
that  secret  page  in  my  history,  and  to  live  as  though  it 
had  never  existed. 

"  4  Five-and-twenty  years  is  a  long  time,  but  it  passed 
iway.  It  is  the  portion  of  my  life  which  I  look  back 
apon  with  the  most  pleasure.  I  did  my  utmost  to  atone 
for  a  wasted  youth,  and  in  some  measure  I  succeeded. 
My  fears  had  grown  fainter  and  fainter,  and  when  the 
blow  came  it  was  like  a  thunderbolt  falling  from  a 
clear  sky.  One  morning  I  received  a  letter  in  Irene's 
writing,  a  little  fainter  and  less  firm  than  of  old,  but 
still  familiar  to  me.  It  contained  only  a  few  lines.  She 
had  told  her  son  all,  and  he  elected  to  assert  his  right- 
ful name  and  position.  In  future  he  intended  to  call 
himself  "  De  Vaux."  and  on  my  death  he  would  claim 
the  estates. 


"GRIM  FIGURES"  t        24? 

"  '  I  read  the  letter,  and  determined  on  instant  action. 
In  a  week  my  son  Paul  and  I  were  on  board  my  yacht, 
starting  for  the  Mediterranean.  We  made  for  Palermo, 
and  here  we  separated, — Paul,  at  all  hazard,  to  find 
Count  Hirsfeld,  to  whom  I  made  a  splendid  offer  if  he 
•would  aid  me  in  inducing  Irene  to  change  her  purpose ; 
I  for  Cruta,  to  see  Irene.' 

**.*•** 

"This  is  almost  the  end  of  your  father's  confession 
to  me,"  Father  Adrian  continued.  "  At  Cruta  he  sought 
the  hospitality  of  the  monastery,  where  he  was  taken 
ill.  He  wrote  an  urgent  letter  to  you,  and  immediately 
he  was  able  to  walk  he  went  up  to  the  castle.  I  have 
already  told  you  of  the  manner  of  return.  Of  that 
visit  he  told  me  scarcely  anything,  and  he  told  me 
nothing  at  all  concerning  the  wound  which  he  received 
there.  Only  I  gathered  that  he  was  more  than  ever 
anxious  to  see  Count  Hirsfeld.  It  was  while  waiting 
for  your  return  that  he  made  this  confession  to  me.  I 
have  finished," 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  white  morning  light  was  stealing  into  the  room 
through  the  uncurtained  windows.  The  fire  had  burnt 
out,  and  there  was  only  a  handful  of  ashes  in  the  grate. 
Outside  in  the  park  a  grey  mist  was  hanging  about  in 
the  hollows  and  over  the  tree-tops,  and  something  of 


248  A  MONK  OP  CRVTA 

its  damp  chilliness  seemed  to  have  found  its  way  into 
the  apartment.  Paul,  who  had  been  leaning  heavily 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  with  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands,  looked  up  and  shivered.  Then  he  glanced 
quickly  across  towards  the  opposite  easy-chair.  Father 
Adrian  was  still  there,  and  at  Paul's  movement  he  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"  This  has  been  a  terrible  night  for  you,  I  fear,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  given  you  so  much 
pain.  If  I  could  I  would  have  spared  you." 

"I  thank  you,"  Paul  answered  wearily.  "It  was 
right  that  I  should  know.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
at  Cruta?" 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  your  father's  death  was  enough 
for  you  to  bear !  Perhaps  I  was  wrong ! " 

Paul  made  no  answer.  His  thoughts  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  travelled  far  away.  Father  Adrian 
watched  his  pale,  stricken  face  with  cold,  pitiless  eyes. 

"  You  are  weary,"  he  said  softly.  "  I  shall  leave 
you  now,  but  I  have  something  more  to  say  to  you  on 
this  matter.  It  is  no  part  of  your  father's  confession. 
It  is  from  myself.  Can  I  come  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day?" 

"  Come  in  a  week,"  Paul  answered.  "I  shall  be  able 
to  talk  calmly  then  about  this." 

Father  Adrian  hesitated.  "A  week!  Well,  let  it  be 
so,  then.  Farewell!" 


"ADREAS  DIARY"  249 


CHAPTEE    XXVIII 

"ADREA'S  DIARY" 

"  Spring  blossoms  on  the  land,  and  anguish  in  the  heart" 
TO-NIGHT  I  shall  close  my  diary  for  a  long  while, 
very  likely  for  ever.  I  am  heartily  thankful  for  it. 
These  last  few  days  have  been  so  wretched,  full  of  so 
much  miserable  uncertainty,  that  their  record  has 
grown  to  be  a  wearisome  task.  It  has  ceased  to  give 
me  any  relief;  it  has  become  nothing  but  a  burden. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise,  when  the  days  themselves 
have  been  so  grey,  so  full  of  shadows  and  disappoint- 
ments? You  have  been  a  relief  to  me  sometimes,  my 
silent  friend;  but  what  lies  before  me  is  not  to  be  re- 
corded in  your  pages. 

Twenty-four  hours  have  passed  since  I  made  my  last 
entry.  It  was  night  then,  and  it  is  night  now.  All 
that  lies  between  seems  phantasmagoric  and  unreal. 
I  ask  myself  whether  it  has  really  happened;  and  when 
the  day's  events  rise  slowly  up  before  my  memory,  I 
almost  fail  to  recognise  them.  Yet  I  have  but  to  close 
my  eyes  and  lean  back,  and  it  all  crowds  in  upon  me. 
In  the  future  I  know  that  this  day  will  stand  out  clear 
and  distinct  from  all  the  rest  of  my  life. 


250  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  when  I  started  for  Vaux 
Abbey  across  the  moorland  road.  So  long  have  I  seen 
this  bleak  county  wrapped  in  mists  and  sea  fogs  that 
to-day  I  scarcely  recognised  it.  There  was  a  clear 
blue  sky,  streaked  with  little  patches  of  white,  wind- 
swept clouds,  and  the  sun — actually  the  sun — was 
shining  brilliantly.  How  it  changed  everything!  The 
grey,  hungry  sea,  which  I  had  never  been  able  to  look 
upon  without  a  shudder,  seemed  to  have  caught  the 
colouring  of  the  sky,  and  a  million  little  scintillations 
of  glistening  light  rose  and  fell  at  every  moment  on 
the  bosom  of  the  tiny,  white-crested  waves.  And  the 
moorland,  too,  was  transformed.  Its  bare,  rock-strewn 
undulations  lost  all  their  harshness  of  outline  and  col- 
ouring in  the  sweet,  glancing  sunlight;  and  afar  off 
the  line  of  rugged  hills,  which  I  had  never  seen  save 
with  their  heads  wreathed  in  a  cloud  of  white  mist, 
stood  out  clear  and  distinct  against  the  distant  horizon, 
tinged  with  a  dim,  purple  light. 

Why  did  it  all  make  such  an  impression  upon  me, 
I  wonder  ?  I  cannot  say ;  but  nothing  in  all  my  life 
ever  struck  so  deep  a  note  of  sadness.  I  feel  it  now; 
I  shall  feel  it  always.  There  was  madness  in  my  blood 
when  I  started,  I  think;  but  before  my  walk  was  half 
over,  it  had  increased  a  thousand- fold.  Every  little 
sound  and  sight  seemed  to  aggravate  it.  I  missed  the 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  251 

dull  sighing  and  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  black 
copses — a  sound  which  had  somehow  endeared  itself  to 
me  during  these  last  few  days — and  in  its  place  the 
soft  murmur  of  what  seemed  almost  a  summer  breeze 
amongst  the  tall  pine-tops  stirred  in  me  an  unreason- 
able anger.  The  face  of  the  whole  country  seemed 
smiling  at  me.  What  mockery!  What  right  had  the 
earth  to  rejoice  when  grief  and  anxiety  were  driving 
me  mad?  For  it  was  indeed  a  sort  of  madness  which 
laid  hold  of  me.  I  clenched  my  hands,  and  muttered 
to  myself  as  I  walked  swiftly  along.  The  road  was 
deserted,  and  I  met  no  one.  Once  a  dark  bush  away 
off  seemed  to  me  to  take  a  man's  shape.  I  stopped 
short.  Could  it  be  Father  Adrian  returning  to  the 
Abbey?  I  felt  my  breath  come  quickly  as  I  stood 
there  waiting.  The  idea  excited  me.  I  found  myself 
trembling  with  a  passion  that  was  not  of  fear,  and, 
suddenly  stooping  down,  I  picked  up  a  sharp  flint,  and 
grasped  it  tightly  between  my  fingers.  Then  I  moved 
steathily  on,  and  the  thing  defined  itself.  After  allj  it 
was  only  a  bush,  not  a  man  at  all.  I  tossed  my  weapon 
on  one  side  with  a  strained  little  laugh.  The  sense  of 
excitement  passed  away,  but  it  left  an  odd  flavour  be- 
hind it.  I  found  myself  deliberating  as  to  what  I  had 
meant  to  do  with  that  stone  if  it  had  really  been  Father 
Adrian,  and  if  I  had  succeeded  in  stealing  silently  up 


262  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

behind  him.  Perhaps  I  scarcely  realized  my  full  in- 
tention, but  a  dim  sense  of  it  remained  with  me.  It 
was  the  development  of  a  new  instinct  born  of  this 
swiftly-built-up  hatred.  I  have  my  reasons  for  writing 
of  this.  I  wish  to  distinctly  mark  the  period  of  the 
event  which  I  have  just  recorded. 

There  was  no  fear  of  my  mistaking  the  way  to  Vaux 
Abbey,  for  it  stood  upon  a  hill,  and  had  been  within 
sight  ever  since  I  had  taken  the  moorland  road.  I  was 
unused  to  walking,  and  the  road  was  rough ;  but  I  do 
not  remember  once  feeling  in  any  way  fatigued  or  foot- 
sore, although  one  of  my  shoes  had  a  great  hole  in  it, 
and  was  almost  in  strips.  My  mind  was  too  full  of  the 
end  of  my  journey  to  be  conscious  of  such  things.  I 
had  only  one  fear:  that  I  should  be  too  late;  that 
somehow  the  threatened  blow  would  have  been  struck, 
and  Paul  in  some  way  removed  from  me.  It  was  fear 
more  than  hope  which  buoyed  me  up.  But  anyhow, 
it  answered  its  purpose,  for  in  less  than  three  hours 
after  I  had  started  I  found  myself  before  the  great 
hall-door  of  Vaux  Abbey. 

A  deep,  hollow  peal  followed  my  nerveless  little  pull 
at  the  chain  bell-rope,  and  almost  immediately  the 
door  opened.  A  grey-haired  manservant,  in  black  livery, 
looked  down  at  me  in  surprise. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Paul  deVaux!"  I  announced. 
"Is  he  in?" 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  253 

The  man  hesitated.  "  I  believe  so,  miss,"  he  said 
doubtfully;  "but  he  is  engaged  on  some  important 
business,  and  has  given  orders  that  no  one  is  to  dis- 
turb him.  Lady  de  Vaux  is  at  home." 

"My  business  is  with  Mr.  Paul  de  Vaux,"  I  said. 
(6  Will  you  tell  him  that  it  is  some  one  from  the  Her- 
mitage, and  I  think  that  he  will  see  me." 

The  man  did  not  answer  me  in  words,  but  motioned 
me  to  follow  him.  My  courage  was  failing  me  a  little, 
and  I  was  certainly  inclined  not  to  look  around,  but 
nevertheless  the  place  made  an  impression  on  me.  The 
great  hall  which  we  were  crossing  was  like  the  interior 
of  some  richly  decorated  church.  The  ceiling  was 
dome-shaped,  and  the  base  of  the  cupola  was  sur- 
rounded by  stained  glass  windows,  which  cast  a  dim 
light  down  upon  the  interior.  The  white  stone  flags 
were  here  and  there  covered  by  Eastern  rugs,  thrown 
carelessly  down,  but  for  the  most  part  were  bare,  and 
as  slippery  as  marble ;  so  slippery  that  once  I  nearly 
fell,  and  only  saved  myself  by  catching  at  an  oak 
bench.  Just  as  I  recovered  myself,  I  saw  the  figure 
of  a  woman  descending  the  huge  double  oak  staircase 
which  terminated  opposite  to  us.  My  guide  paused 
when  he  saw  her,  and  I  was  also  compelled  to. 

"  Here  is  her  ladyship!  "  he  said. 

I  watched  her  slowly   advance    toward  us,  a  fine, 


254  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

stately  old  lady,  carrying  herself  with  unmistakable 
dignity,  although  she  was  forced  to  lean  a  good  deal 
on  a  gold-mounted,  black  ebony  stick.  And,  as  I  looked 
at  her,  I  thought  of  Father  Adrian's  words:  "I  can 
break  his  mother's  heart;  "  and  I  leant  eagerly  forward 
in  the  chastened  twilight  with  my  eyes  anxiously  fixed 
upon  her.  She  came  slowly  on  towards  me,  and  when 
she  was  a  few  yards  away  she  spoke  to  the  servant. 

"  Does  this  young  lady  wish  to  see  me,  Richards  ?  " 

She  spoke  to  the  man,  but  she  looked  towards  me, 
and  evidently  expected  me  to  address  her.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  could  not.  A  little  gasp  of  relief  had  quivered 
upon  my  lips,  and  my  eyes  were  suddenly  dim.  To 
look  into  Lady  de  Vaux's  face,  stately,  calm,  and  kind, 
seemed  like  a  strong  antidote  to  my  fears  of  Father 
Adrian.  It  was  quite  evident  that  nothing  unexpected 
had  happened  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  Father 
Adrian's  threat  had  been  an  empty  one.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  Lady  de  Vaux,  the  fears  which  had  been  con- 
suming me  departed.  She  was  so  unmoved,  so  indiffer- 
ent. How  could  a  little  Jesuit  priest  hurt  such  a  one 
as  she? 

The  thoughts  chased  one  another  quickly  through 
my  mind ;  but  still  my  hesitation  was  apparent.  After 
waiting  in  vain  for  me  to  speak,  the  servant  who  wan 
conducting  me  answered  Lady  de  Vaux's  question. 

"  The  young  lady  asked  for  Mr.   Paul,  your  lady- 


ADEEA'S  DIART  255 

ship.     It  was  doubtful  whether  I  might  disturb  him." 

"For  Mr.  Paul?"  Lady  de  Vaux  looked  at  me, 
leaning  forward  on  her  stick,  and  with  her  eyebrows  a 
little  uplifted.  "  My  son  is  particularly  engaged,  and 
has  left  word  that  he  does  not  wish  to  be  disturbed 
for  several  hours,"  she  said.  "If  you  have  anything 
to  say  to  him,  you  can  say  it  to  me.  I  am  Lady  de 
Vaux!" 

"Thank  you!  I  must  wait  and  see  your  son,"  I 
answered. 

She  moved  away  with  a  slight  and  distinctly  haughty 
inclination  of  her  head.  "  You  can  show  this  young 
lady  into  the  waiting-room,  Richards,"  she  directed. 
"  Take  her  name  in  to  Mr.  Paul  when  he  rings.  By 
the  bye,"  she  added,  pausing  in  her  slow  progress  over 
the  hall,  and  looking  me  once  more  steadily  in  the  face, 
"  what  is  your  name?  " 

"You  would  not  know  it,"  I  answered.  "I  have 
come  from  the  Hermitage — near  here." 

She  did  not  speak  to  me  for  a  moment,  but  I  saw  the 
colour  rising  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  fingers  were 
trembling.  It  was  foolish  of  me  to  have  told  her.  A 
glance  into  her  face  showed  me  that  she  had  heard 
something,  she  knew  something  of  me.  She  was  look- 
ing at  me  as  at  some  object  almost  beneath  her  con- 
tempt. Yet  she  spoke  quite  calmly. 

"You  are  Adrea  Kiros,  the  dancing  girl!" 


256          .  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

I  answered  her  quite  coolly — I  believe  respectfully. 
She  was  Paul's  mother.  Yet  I  could  see  that  she  was 
going  to  be  very  rude  to  me. 

"You  can  have  nothirg  to  say  to  my  son,"  she  de- 
clared. "  It  is  infamous  that  you  should  have  followed 
him  here — to  his  own  house.  Be  so  good  as  to  quit  it  at 
once.  Mr.  de  Vaux  shall  be  informed  later  of  the 
honour  of  your  visit,  and  if  he  has  anything  to  say  to 
you,  he  can  find  other  means  save  an  interview  under 
this  roof.  Richards! " 

She  pointed  across  the  hall  towards  the  entrance.  I 
stood  quite  still,  struggling  with  my  passion.  If  she 
had  been  any  other  woman,  I  should  have  struck  her 
across  the  lips. 

"  I  shall  remain !  "  I  answered.  "  I  am  here  to  see 
Mr.  de  Vaux;  I  shall  see  him!  Don't  dare  to  touch 
me,  man!"  I  added  fiercely,  as  Richards  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder. 

He  shrank  back  hastily.  I  even  believe  that  he 
muttered  an  apology.  Perhaps  they  saw  that  I  was 
not  to  be  trifled  with,  for  Lady  de  Vaux  suddenly 
changed  her  tactics. 

"Follow  me!"  she  said,  sweeping  round,  with  an 
imperious  gesture.  "You  shall  see  my  son!  You 
shall  hear  from  his  own  lips  what  he  thinks  of  this 
— intrusion.  Perhaps  you  will  leave  the  Abbey  at 
his  bidding,  if  not  at  mine." 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  257 

I  followed  her  in  silence,  carrying  myself  proudly, 
but  with  fast-beating  heart.  What  would  he  think 
of  my  coming?  Would  he  call  it  an  intrusion?  At 
any  rate  he  could  not  be  pleased:  for  even  if  he  re- 

J  i 

ceived  me  kindly,  he  would  have  his  mother's  anger 
to  face.  Yet,  how  could  I  have  kept  away? 

We  halted,  all  three  of  us,  before  a  closed  door 
at  the  back  of  the  hall.  There  was  no  answer  to 
the  man's  somewhat  ostentatious  knock,  and  Lady 
de  Vaux,  after  a  moment's  waiting,  turned  the  handle 
of  the  door  and  swept  into  the  room.  I  kept  close 
behind  her. 

I  can  remember  it  now;  I  shall  always  remember 
it — the  dim,  peculiar  light  which  tired  our  eyes  the 
moment  we  had  stepped  inside.  It  was  easy  to  dis- 
cover the  reason.  The  heavy  velvet  curtains  were 
still  drawn  in  front  of  the  high  windows,  and  on  a 
distant  table  a  lamp  was  only  just  flickering  out.  At 
first  it  seemed  as  though  the  great  chamber  was 
empty.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen,  and  it  was 
not  until  we  reached  a  deep  recess  at  the  further 
end  that  we  discovered  Paul. 

At  the  sight  of  him  we  both  stood  still — Lady  de 
Vaux  moved  in  spite  of  her  stately  composure,  and  T 
spellbound.  He  was  sitting  before  an  oak  writing 
desk  covered  with  papers,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 


258  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

his  head  was  resting  upon  his  bowed  arms.  He  neither 
spoke  nor  moved,  nor  seemed  indeed  in  any  way  con- 
scious of  our  approach.  The  window  fronting  him 
was,  unlike  all  the  others,  uncurtained  and  wide  open, 
and  a  flood  of  sunshine  was  streaming  in  upon  his 
bowed  head,  and  mingling  with  the  sicklier  light  of 
the  rest  of  the  apartment.  It  was  a  strange  and 
ghastly  combination;  not  only  in  itself,  but  in  the  sort 
of  halo  it  seemed  to  cast  around  his  dark,  bowed  head. 
Ah!  Paul,  my  love,  my  love!  how  my  heart  ached  for 
you! 

"  He  is  asleep,"  Lady  de  Vaux  said  fearfully. 
"Paul!" 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  check  her.  "  Let  him  alone ! " 
I  whispered  hoarsely.  "  I  will  go  away.  Don't  you 
see  that  he  is  resting." 

She  took  no  notice  of  me,  nor  of  my  backward 
movement,  but  leaned  over  towards  him  as  though  to 
touch  his  arm.  A  sort  of  fury  came  upon  me.  I  knew 
that  the  Paul  whom  she  was  trying  to  recall  from  the 
land  of  unconsciousness  would  never  again  be  the  Paul 
of  the  past.  Father  Adrian  had  kept  his  word.  The 
blow  which  he  had  threatened  had  fallen.  Paul! 
I  looked  at  your  dear  bowed  head  until  the  tears 
dimmed  my  eyes,  and  the  great  room  swam  around 
me.  For  in  my  heart  I  felt  that  it  was  I  who  had 


"ADBEA'S  DIARY"  259 

brought  this  thing  upon  you;  I  who  could  have  saved 
you  by  a  single  word. 

"Paul,  wake  up!     It  is  I,  your  mother." 

I  snatched  hold  of  her  hand,  and  drew  it  away. 
"Let  him  rest,"  I  cried,  fiercely.  "He  will  waken 
soon  enough." 

She  looked  at  me  in  dignified  astonishment.  "  How 
dare  you  presume  to  dictate  to  me  in  this  fashion  ?" 
she  exclaimed.  "  And  why  should  he  not  be  awak- 
ened ?  It  is  past  mid-day.  Paul !  " 

The  crouching  figure  moved.  He  had  heard,  then! 
I  held  my  breath,  longing  to  escape,  yet  compelled  to 
watch  with  fascinated  eyes  the  rising  of  that  bowed 
head.  There  was  no  start,  or  hurried  awakening,  if 
indeed  he  had  been  asleep  at  all.  He  simply  turned 
liis  head,  and  looked  at  us  with  surprise,  without  any 
emotion  of  any  sort. 

I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands,  and  sobbed.  Lady  de 
Vaux  was  silent  with  horror.  For  there  was  some- 
thing inexpressibly,  awfully  moving  in  the  silent,  pas- 
sionless sorrow  which  seemed  written  with  an  unspar- 
ing hand  onto  that  white  face.  All  combativeness  had 
passed  away,  but  resignation  had  not  come  to  take  its 
place.  And,  apart  from  the  outward  evidence  of  the 
agony  through  which  he  had  passed,  its  physical 
traces  were  very  apparent.  Deep,  black  lines  seemed 


260  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

furrowed  into  the  flesh  under  his  dull  eyes,  and  the 
firm,handsome  mouth  was  drawn  and  quivering.  It  was 
such  a  change  as  might  have  been  worked  by  some 
deadly  Eastern  poison,  eating  away  the  corporal  frame. 
To  think  that  it  had  worked  from  within — that  burn- 
ing and  terrible  sorrow  had  caused  it — was  horrible. 

Lady  de  Vaux  was  the  first  to  speak.  The  icy  com- 
posure of  her  manner  was  gone.  Her  voice  was 
strained  and  anxious. 

"  Why,  Paul,  what  have  you  been  doing  here  all 
night  ?  Do  you  know  that  it  is  past  mid-day  ?  Has 
anything  happened?  Are  you  ill?  " 

"111?  No;  I  think  not."  He  seemed  to  be  speak- 
ing from  a  great  way  off.  Nothing  about  him  was  nat- 
ural. He  was  on  his  feet,  but  I  expected  every  mo- 
ment to  see  him  reel  and  fall. 

"But,  Paul,  what  have  you  been  doing — writing?  " 
Lady  de  Vaux  asked  anxiously.  Then,  as  though 
warned  by  his  strange  appearance,  she  checked  his 
mechanical  answer.  "  Never  mind,  never  mind !  You 
are  tired,  I  can  see.  Won't  you  go  and  lie  down  for 
awhile?  Come,  I  will  go  with  you." 

She  had  forgotten  me,  until  she  found  that  he  paid 
no  heed  to  her  words ;  that  his  eyes  travelled  past  her, 
and  remained  fixed  upon  me.  Then  she  turned  swiftly 
upon  me. 


"ADEEMS  DIAR7"  261 

"  You  had  better  go,"  she  said  in  a  low,  imperative 
whisper.  "  Ask  them  to  show  you  into  my  room,  and 
wait  there  for  me." 

I  took  no  notice  of  her.  My  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Paul.  I  felt  that  he  was  going  to  speak  to  me ;  and 
he  did. 

"Adrea!  Adrea!"  he  said  slowly.  "How  is  it  that 
you  are  here?  You  did  not  come  with  him,  did  you? 
No!  no!  of  course  not.  And  yet,  how  is  it  that  you 
are  here?" 

"  I  feared  Father  Adrian  and  his  threats,  and  I  was 
alone,  quite  alone,  and — and  I  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
I  was  obliged  to  come." 

His  face  grew  a  trifle  more  animated;  I  could  see 
that  he  was  recovering.  The  dumb  stupor  which  had 
held  his  features  rigid  was  passing  away. 

"Yes,  I  am  glad  you  are  here.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you.  I  had  some  important  business  which  kept  me 
writing  here  all  night,  and  must  have  fallen  asleep.  I 
will  go  and  change  my  things  and  come  back  to  you." 

He  looked  down  at  his  crumpled  shirt-front  and 
disordered  tie,  and  then  moved  slowly  towards  the 
door.  Lady  da  Vaux  hesitated  for  a  moment,  with  a 
dark  frown  upon  her  face,  and  then  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"Your   explanation  should   surely   have   been   ad- 


262  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

dressed  to  me,  Paul,"  she  said  coldly.     "  Who  is  this 
young  lady?" 

"  She   is  a   friend  of  mine,"  Paul  answered,  "and 


"  I  heard  you  call  her  *  Adrea,' "  Lady  de  Vaux 
continued.  "May  I  ask  whether  it  is  indeed  Miss 
Adrea  Kiros?" 

"  I  have  told  you  that  is  my  name,  Lady  de  Vaux," 
I  answered  promptly.  "You  have  possibly  heard  of 
me." 

Lady  de  Vaux  turned  her  back  upon  both  of  us, 
and  left  the  room  without  a  word. 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  263 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"ADREA'S  DIARY" 

"  Love,  blossoming  in  the  roses,  holds  a  dagger  in  her  hands." 

WE  were  alone,  Paul  and  I,  in  that  great,  solemn 
room,  full  of  pale,  phantom-like  lights  and  quivering 
shadows.  He  was  standing  a  few  yards  away  from 
me,  with,  his  head  half  averted,  and  his  eyes  full  of  a 
great,  hopeless  despair.  In  silence  I  approached  him, 
and  took  his  death-cold  hand  in  mine. 

"It  is  no  matter,"!  whispered;  "I  do  not  care  for 
your  mother!  Her  words  are  nothing!  I  will  not  leave 
you — not  till  you  tell  me  everything." 

"Everything!"  He  echoed  the  word,  and  looked  at 
me  helplessly.  "Everything!  Tell  you  everything!" 

Suddenly  there  was  a  change.  The  numbed,  help- 
less look  left  his  face,  and  his  features  were  relaxed. 
He  was  himself  again;  a  strong,  brave  man,  only 
shaken  by  the  storm. 

"Adrea,  forgive  me!  Did  you  think  that  I  was  go- 
ing mad  ?  I  have  had  a  terrible  shock,  and  I  have 
been  up  all  night  listening  to  a  story  which  brings 
great  suffering  and  misery  upon  me! " 


264  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

His  eyes  had  suddenly  a  far-away  look  in  them,  so 
sad  that  I  felt  the  tears  rush  into  mine.  I  pressed  his 
hand  to  let  him  know  that  I  understood ;  but  I  kept 
my  face  turned  from  him.  Ah !  love  is  a  strange  thing, 
indeed !  If  I  had  not  cared,  Paul,  I  could  have  sym- 
pathised with  you  so  nicely,  and  made  so  many  pretty 
speeches.  But  I  love  you,  and  it  made  me  feel  very 
strange  and  solemn.  I  had  nothing  to  say;  my  heart 
was  too  full.  Did  you  understand,  I  wonder?  Will 
you  ever  understand?  Paul,  my  love!  my  love!  It  is 
so  sweet  to  say  that  over  and  over  to  myself  in  this 
dark  chamber,  where  there  is  no  one  to  hear  me,  or  to 
see  me  looking  so  foolish.  You  make  me  feel  so  dif- 
ferent, Paul!  That  is  because  you  yourself  are  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  the  men  I  know;  from  all  the  men  I 
have  ever  seen. 

We  stood  there,  quite  silent,  for  some  moments. 
Then  he  drew  a  quick,  stifled  breath,  and  caught  hold 
of  my  hands.  "I  cannot  breathe  in  this  place,"  he 
said,  looking  half  fearfully  around;  "the  very  air 
seems  tainted  with  that  horrible  story,  and  its  ghosts 
are  lurking  in  every  corner!" 

"Let  me  draw  the  curtains,"  I  whispered.  The 
sunlight  will  banish  them.  You  are  dazed." 

He  held  my  hand  tightly,  and  drew  me  towards  the 
window.  "  Never  mind  the  curtains!  We  will  go  out; 
out  over  the  moor." 


'ADREA'S  DIAR  Y"  261 

He  was  feverishly  impatient  to  be  gone,  but  I  held 
him  back.  "Your  clothes!"  I  reminded  him.  "  And 
you  have  no  hat!  " 

He  looked  down  doubtfully  at  his  disordered  evening 
dress,  and  then  released  my  hands.  "  Wait  for  me, 
here,"  he  begged.  "  Promise  that  you  will  not  go 
away;  that  nothing  shall  make  you  go." 

I  promised. 

"See!  I  shall  lock  the  door,"  he  continued,  as  he 
reached  the  threshold.  "  No  one  can  come  in  and  dis- 
turb you! " 

"Please  to  have  some  tea  and  a  bath!"  I  begged. 
"  I  do  not  mind  waiting.  You  will  be  ill,  if  you  do 
not  mind." 

He  was  gone  about  half  an  hour.  Once,  some  one 
came  and  tried  the  door,  but  I  took  no  notice.  At  last 
I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  he  entered.  "  Did 
you  think  that  I  was  long?"  he  asked,  coming  up  to 
me  v.ith  a  smile. 

I  shook  my  head ;  my  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and 
there  was  a  lump  in  my  throat.  I  could  not  speak.  He 
had  changed  all  his  clothes,  and  was  carefully  dressed 
in  a  brown  tweed  shooting  suit  and  gaiters,  but  the 
correctness  and  order  of  his  external  appearance  seemed 
only  to  emphasize  the  ravages  which  one  single  night's 
suffering  had  wrought  upon  his  strong,  handsome  face. 


fc66  A  MONK  OF  CBUTA 

Hard,  cruel  lines  had  furrowed  their  way  across  his 
forehead,  and  under  his  eyes  were  deep  black  marks. 
His  bronze  cheeks  were  white  and  sunken,  and  a  bright 
red  spot  burned  on  one  of  them.  But  it  was  a  change 
of  which  the  details  could  give  no  idea.  His  face  had 
caught  the  inflection  of  his  inward  agony,  and  retained 
it.  It  was  there,  if  not  for  the  world  to  see,  at  any 
rate  terribly  evident  to  me,  to  those  who  loved  him. 

He  was  quite  calm  now,  however.  It  was  as  though 
the  fires  of  suffering  had  burnt  themselves  out,  leaving 
behind  them  a  silent,  charred  desolation.  He  took  my 
arm,  and  together  we  left  the  room,  passing  through 
the  high  French  windows  and  along  an  open  terrace 
until  we  reached  the  gardens.  We  turned  down  a 
broad  walk  bordered  by  high  yew  hedges,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  which  was  a  little  gate  leading  into  the  park. 
The  air  was  fragrant  with  the  perfume  of  violets,  and 
early  stocks  and  hyacinths,  mingled  every  now  and 
then  with  a  more  delicate  perfume  from  the  green- 
houses on  the  other  side  of  the  red-brick  wall.  How 
beautiful  it  all  seemed,  in  that  sweet,  dancing  sunlight ! 
— the  songs  of  the  birds,  the  blossoming  fruit-trees, 
and  pink-budded  chestnuts,  the  scents  which  floated 
about  on  the  soft  west  breeze,  and  the  constant  hum- 
ming of  bees  and  other  winged  insects.  Only  in 
England  could  there  have  been  so  sudden  a  change 


"ADREA'8  DIARY"  267 

from  the  grey  mists  and  leaden  skies  of  yesterday. 
Even  in  that  moment  of  extreme  tension  I  could  not 
help  an  exclamation  of  admiration  as  we  came  to  an 
end  of  the  gravelled  walk,  and  Paul  held  open  for  me 
a  little  iron  gate. 

"  How  beautiful  your  home  is!  "  I  cried.  "  How  you 
must  love  it! " 

A  look  almost  of  agony  passed  across  his  face.  It 
came  and  went  in  a  moment.  "Yes!  I  love  it!"  he 
answered,  "but  it  is  not  my  home.  Henceforth  I  have 
no  home.  I  may  well  be  thankful  that  I  have  even  a 
name! " 

I  looked  at  him,  waiting  for  an  explanation,  but  he 
walked  on  in  silence.  It  was  not  until  we  were  half- 
way across  the  park  that  I  spoke.  "  I  do  not  under- 
stand!" I  said  softly.  "Will  you  not  tell  me  some- 
thing of  your  trouble?" 

"I  would  that  I  could,  Adrea!"  he  answered.  His 
voice  was  so  gentle,  and  yet  his  face  was  so  stern. 
"  But  no,  I  cannot.  It  is  a  secret.  It  is  only  a  blotted 
page  of  our  family  history  made  clear  to  me.  But  it 
alters  everything!" 

"Does  it  make  you  poorer?"  I  asked  falteringly. 

He  looked  down  in  my  eyes  bravely;  but  his  voice 
shook  as  he  answered:  "If  it  be  true — as  I  scarcely 
doubt — it  takes  from  me  everything:  my  money,  my 


268  A  MONK  OF  CRVTA 

home,  my  future.  It  brings  everything  but  disgrace 
upon  us,  Adrea,  and  even  that  must  touch  our  name. 
Even  though  the  living  are  spared,  the  memory  of  the 
dead  must  suffer! " 

I  felt  the  tears  flowing  down  my  cheeks,  but  I  dashed 
them  away.  "  I  do  not  understand.  I 

"Of  course  not!  and  I  cannot  explain.  Yet  it  is 
simple!  I  have  an  elder  brother,  of  whom  I  never 
heard,  to  whom  everything  belongs.  I  am  going  to 
find  him!" 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  I  cried.  He  shook  his  head.  "That 
I  cannot  tell.  Father  Adrian  knows,  but  he  will  not 
speak.  I  am  going  in  search  of  him  myself.  I  am 
going  to  Cruta! " 

To  Cruta!  The  name  rang  in  my  ears,  and  earth 
and  trees  and  skv  seemed  reeling  before  me.  Then  I 

* 

clutched  him  by  the  arm,  and  cried  out  hysterically,— 
"You  shall  not  go  there!     The  place  is  horrible! 
You  shall  not  go!  " 

He  stood  still,  and  looked  at  me  in  wonderment. 
We  had  crossed  the  park  now,  and  were  on  the  edge  of 
the  bare  moorland.  His  figure  alone  stood  out  in  soli- 
tary relief  against  the  sky.  I  was  half  mad  with  fear 
and  dismay.  He  did  not  understand.  How  could  he  ? 
"It  is  at  Cruta  that  I  can  learn  all  that  there  still  is 
for  me  to  learn,"  he  said.  "I  shall  start  for  there  to- 
night." 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  369 

Oh!  it  was  horrible!  What  could  I  say ?  How  was 
I  to  stop  him  ?  How  much  dare  I  tell  ?  I  caught  hold 
of  his  hands,  and  held  them  tightly. 

"Paul,  I  want  to  ask  you  something!  When  you 
heard  from  the  convent  that  relations  had  claimed  me 
and  taken  me  away,  and  then,  a  year  afterwards,  you 
found  me  there — in  London — a  dancing  girl,  what  did 
you  think?" 

He  answered  me  at  once  and  without  hesitation.  "  I 
thought  that  you  had  misled  the  Lady  Superior, — that 
you  were  weary  of  your  life  there,  and  had  run  away." 

I  shook  my  head.  "  I  knew  that  you  thought  so 
and  I  never  denied  it.  But  it  was  not  so!  I  was  not 
unhappy  at  the  convent,  but  one  day  I  was  sent  for 
and  bidden  prepare  for  a  journey.  Some  relatives  had 
sent  for  me,  and  I  was  to  go.  And  to  where  ?  It  was 
to  Cruta!  Paul,  it  was  old  Count  of  Cruta  who  claimed 
me.  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  of  the  time  I  spent 
there,  shut  up  in  the  gloomy  castle;  it  was  horrible 
beyond  all  words.  Even  the  memory  of  it  makes  me 
shudder.  If  only  I  could  tell  you!  But  I  must  not! 
I  can  tell  you  this,  though.  In  less  than  six  months  I 
felt  myself  going  mad;  and  one  night  I  stole  down  to 
the  beach  and  unfastened  a  small  boat  and  rowed  away, 
scarcely  caring  what  happened  to  me  so  that  I  could 
but  escape  from  that  awful  place.  It  was  a  desperate 


270  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

chance.  I  was  out  all  day  without  food  or  water,  row- 
ing and  drifting  until  Cruta  lay  like  a  speck  in  the  dis- 
tance. Then  by  chance  I  was  picked  up  by  an  English 
yacht,  and  they  brought  me  to  London.  I  arrived 
there  helpless  and  miserable,  and,  ah!  how  lonely!  I 
dared  not  go  back  to  the  convent  for  fear  I  should  be 
sent  back  to  Cruta.  There  was  only  you.  I  went  to 
your  bankers,  and  they  told  me  that  you  were  abroad 
— on  the  Continent.  By  chance  they  asked  me  there 
my  name,  and  by  chance  again  I  told  them  it  truth- 
fully. They  told  me  that  they  had  money  for  me 
there.  I  had  only  to  sign  a  receipt,  and  they  gave  me 
more  than  I  asked  for — ten  times  more.  Then  I  re- 
membered the  address  of  an  English  girl  who  had 
been  at  the  convent  with  me,  and  she  gave  me  a  home 
for  a  time.  It  was  through  her  dancing  mistress  that 
I  became — a  dancing  girl.  I  have  told  you  this,  Paul, 
because  I  want  you  to  promise  me  not  to  go  Cruta.  It 
is  an  evil  place.  They  are  mad  there.  Promise  me!  " 

He  looked  at  me  gravely  and  very  tenderly ;  but  his 
tone  was  firm.  "Adrea,  it  is  necessary  that  I  go 
there,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot  rest  for  a  moment  until  I 
know  for  certain  whether  a  story  which  I  have  just 
been  told  is  a  true  one.  The  proof  lies  in  Cruta!  It 
is  no  whim  which  is  taking  me  there!  I  must  go! " 

My  heart  was  sick  with  dread.     Yet  what  could  I 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  271 

do?  I  said  nothing;  only  I  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands  and  wept. 

"  Adrea,  you  are  a  foolish  child! "  he  said,  bending 
over  me.  "What  is  there  for  me  to  fear  at  Cruta? 
Look  up  and  tell  me! " 

I  shook  my  head.  "You  would  not  heed  me,"  I 
answered  sadly.  "  I  dare  not  tell  you.  But  there  is 
one  thing,"  I  added  hastily.  "  Will  you  do  it  for  me 
simply  because  I  ask  you?  " 

"If  it  be  possible,  yes!" 

I  stood  still  on  a  little  hillock,  and  faced  him  eagerly. 
"Then  do  not  go  to  Cruta  until  to-morrow! "  I  begged. 
"It  will  make  no  difference  to  you." 

"  And  what  difference  will  it  make  to  you  he  asked, 
perplexed. 

"Never  mind!  promise!"  He  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  a  frown  on  his  forehead,  and  his  face 
turned  seaward. 

"  Well !     I  will  promise  then ! ' ' 

I  caught  hold  of  his  hand,  and  held  it  tightly. 
"You  are  very  good  to  me!"  I  said.  " Allonsl  let  us 
move  onward!" 

We  had  reached  the  Hermitage,  and  I  hdd  spoken 
scarcely  a  single  word  of  comfort.  An  icy  coldness 
seemed  to  have  stolen  into  my  heart.  I  had  ceased  to 
think  of  Paul,  or  of  my  love.  There  was  something 


272  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

else;  another  passion  which  made  me  blind.  Yet  I  let 
him  come  in  with  me,  and  yielded  myself  up  for  a 
while  to  the  dream  of  loving  and  being  loved  by  him. 
While  I  lay  in  his  arms,  with  my  head  upon  his  shoul- 
der, and  every  now  and  then  felt  his  light,  caressing 
teach  upon  my  face, — why  then,  the  world  for  me  was 
bounded  by  that  little  room,  and  I  had  no  thoughts 
which  travelled  outside  it.  But  it  lasted  only  while  he 
was  with  me.  When  he  stood  up,  and  said  that  he 
must  go,  I  did  not  seek  to  keep  him. 

"Shall  I  come  again?"  he  asked,  as  we  stood  hand 
in  hand  before  the  door. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  Not  to-night  love!  I  shall  be 
better  alone.  I  am  weary,  and  I  have  my  things  to 
collect." 

I  knew  he  would  be  surprised.  He  withdrew  his 
hand,  and  manlike,  was  almost  angry.  "  I  forgot. 
You  will  leave  here,  I  suppose! " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "  What  should  keep  me, 
Paul  ?  I  could  not  live  here  alone.  Every  stone  and 
tree  would  be  full  of  barren  memories.  No!  to-mor- 
row I  go  to  London.  I  have  sent  all  the  servants 
away  to-day,  except  Gomez.  You  will  be  with  me 
early!" 

"I  will  be  outside  your  window  before  you  are  up!" 
he  promised  with  a  touch  of  gaiety  in  his  tone.  "  See 
that  Gomez  has  breakfast  for  two! " 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  278 

He  passed  down  the  avenue,  and  out  of  sight.  I 
closed  the  door  with  a  little  shudder  and  turned  round. 
Gomez  was  by  my  side.  Through  the  gloom  I  could 
see  that  his  dark  eyes  were  full  of  fire,  and  his  olive 
features  were  set  and  grim. 

"  What  do  you  want  Gomez?"  I  asked  quickly. 

He  drew  close  to  my  side.  "The  priest,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  has  he — has  he  dared " 

His  breath  was  coming  quickly.  He  spoke  English 
but  slightly,  and  in  the  excitement  the  words  seemed 
to  stick  in  his  throat. 

I  interrupted  him.  "  He  has  told  Mr.  de  Vaux  some 
strange,  horrible  story.  What  do  you  know  of  it?" 

"All!  All!  All!  I  was  there — in  the  chamber! 
My  master's  words  to  him — I  heard  them  all.  He  has 
told,  then!  He  has  threatened!  Oh!  if  only  I  had 
known  when  he  was  here!  " 

The  man's  fierce  face  and  gesture  told  their  own 
tale.  I  beckoned  him  to  follow  me  into  the  room  where 
Paul  and  I  had  been  sitting,  and  closed  the  door. 

"You  were  Martin  de  Vaux's  faithful  servant,"  I 
said.  "Do  you  want  to  see  his  son  driven  from  his 
home  and  robbed  of  his  lands?" 

The  man  moved  hie  lips,  making  a  curious  sound, 
and  drew  a  long,  gurgling  breath.  He  was  shaking 
with  excitement. 

"Who  should  do  it?" 


274  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  The  priest! "  I  answered  softly. 

"  Because  of  the  words,  the  story  of  which  my  mas- 
ter spoke  to  him  at  his  death  in  the  monastery  ?  " 

"Yes!  because  of  that." 

"Ah!"  He  stole  up  to  my  side  with  a  noiseless, 
animal  movement,  and  whispered  in  my  ear.  His  eyes 
were  burning ;  his  face  was  full  of  evil  meaning.  Yet  I 
did  not  shrink  from  him.  I  welcomed  him  with  a 
smile.  He  whispered  into  my  ear.  It  was  like  the 
hiss  of  a  snake;  but  I  smiled.  I  whispered  back  again. 
He  nodded.  Ah !  the  way  before  me  was  growing  clear 
at  last.  Was  it  not  fate  that  had  brought  Gomez  ready 
to  my  hand?  Ay!  fate!  A  good  fate!  A  kind  fate! 
We  stood  close  together  in  that  dimly  lit  room ;  and 
though  we  were  alone  in  the  house,  we  spoke  in  whis- 
pers to  one  another.  When  I  moved  to  the  door,  Gomez 
followed  me. 

I  came  down  in  ten  minutes,  clad  in  a  long,  dark 
cloak,  with  a  small  hat  and  a  thick  veil.  I  took  a 
stick  from  the  rack,  and  there  was  something  else  in 
my  deep  pocket. 

"Alone!"  he  whispered,  as  I  moved  towards  the 
door. 

"Alone!"  I  answered.  "  Make  a  good  fire  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  let  there  be  food  and  win«  there." 

"  For  two?  "  he  asked  with  an  evil  smile. 

"For  two!" 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  B75 


CHAPTER    XXX 

"  ADBEA'S   DIARY  " 

"  A  land  that  is  lonelier  than  a  ruin." 

A  COLD  twilight  followed  close  upon  the  day.  The 
sky  was  strewn  with  dark  clouds,  and  a  wild  wind  blew 
in  my  face.  I  was  on  an  unknown  road,  and  in  all  iny 
life  I  had  seen  nothing  so  dreary. 

On  one  side,  about  a  hundred  yards  away,  was  the 
sea ;  on  the  other  was  a  broken  stretch  of  bare  moor- 
land covered  with  only  the  scantiest  herbage  and  piles 
of  barren  grey  rocks.  Some  were  lying  together  in 
quaint,  grotesque  shapes ;  others  stood  out  alone  against 
the  sky,  and  broken  fragments  of  all  sizes  covered  the 
ground,  choking  and  destroying  all  vegetation.  There 
was  no  background  of  woods  or  trees ;  there  was  noth- 
ing between  that  barren,  stony  surface  and  the  leaden 
sky.  What  turf  there  had  been  had  lost  its  colour,  and 
never  a  fragment  of  moss  had  grown  upon  one  of  those 
weather-beaten  boulders.  The  sea  air  had  stained 
them,  and  the  grey  evening  mists  had  rotted  them,  un- 
til their  surface  was  honeycombed  with  indentations, 


276  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

but  neither  had  softened  or  toned  down  their  fierce  ug- 
liness. Even  in  the  bright  sunlight  such  a  country  as 
this  must  still  have  been  a  country  of  desolation,  and  a 
light  heart  must  sometimes  have  lost  its  gaiety  and  felt 
oppressed.  To  me,  as  I  hurried  along,  with  the  cold 
evening  settling  down  around  me,  that  walk  was  horri- 
ble. Strange  shadows  seemed  to  dog  my  path  and 
stalk  solemnly  along  by  my  side.  Footsteps  seemed  to 
follow  behind  me,  and  every  stone  I  dislodged  made  me 
start.  Sometimes  I  fancied  that  I  heard  strange  whis- 
perings in  my  ears,  and  I  started  round,  shivering  and 
trembling,  to  find  myself  alone.  Once  I  stopped  short. 
Was  that  a  dead  man  in  the  way?  How  my  heart  beat! 
No !  it  was  only  a  long  boulder  of  rock !  Listen !  was 
not  that  the  scream  of  a  dying  man?  My  own  voice, 
raised  in  helpless  terror,  drowned  the  sound,  and  while 
I  stood  there  ready  to  sink  to  the  ground,  a  great  sea- 
gull came  circling  round  my  head,  and  the  blood  flowed 
warm  in  my  veins  once  more.  How  sad  and  mournful 
v  as  that  solitary  cry  and  slow,  hopeless  flapping  of  the 
wings!  Who  was  it  said  that  the  evil  spirits  of  dead 
men  dwell  imprisoned  in  those  sad-crying  birds?  It 
was  very,  very  human,  that  cry.  Bah!  was  I  getting 
superstitious  and  faint-hearted  before  my  task  was 
begun  ?  I  set  my  teeth  and  stepped  boldly  onwards. 
For  a  while  I  had  no  more  fancies. 


"ADREA'8  DIARY"  277 

Throughout  that  hideous  walk  my  whole  imagination 
seemed  coloured  with  a  reflection  of  the  purpose  to- 
wards which  I  was  tending.  I  do  not  write  this  in  any 
morbid  fit.  Few  women  have  passed  through  what  I 
have  passed  through ;  fewer  still  have  stopped  to  record 
their  sensations.  It  is  strange  that  it  should  afford  me 
any  satisfaction  to  record  them  here,  but  it  is  so.  I 
have  begun,  and  I  must  go  on.  This  part  of  my  life 
is  drawing  rapidly  to  a  close,  and  with  its  close  I  shall 
seal  this  little  book  up  and  put  it  away  for  ever. 

The  night  grew  darker,  and  the  road  was  fast  be- 
coming little  more  than  a  rude  cattle-track.  A  little 
distance  ahead  of  me,  from  some  building  as  yet  un- 
seen, a  strong,  clear  light  was  steadily  burning.  Save 
for  it,  I  might  have  feared  that  I  had  lost  my  way,  for 
as  yet  I  had  passed  no  sign  of  human  habitation.  But 
that  light  was  sufficient.  Gomez  had  told  me  of  it.  It 
was  the  light  which  burned  always,  from  dusk  to  morn- 
ing, from  the  tower  of  the  monastery  of  St.  Bernard. 
***** 

Two  things  seemed  strange  to  me,  or  rather  seem 
strange  to  me  now,  when  I  look  back  upon  that  walk. 
The  first  was  my  utter  indifference  to  all  physical  pain. 
There  was  a  hole  in  my  boot,  and  I  found  afterwarda 
that  my  foot  must  have  been  bleeding  most  of  the  time. 
I  never  felt  it.  I  was  conscious  of  neither  pain  nor 
fatigue.  The  second  thing  which  surprises  me  is  that, 


278  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

as  I  drew  near  to  my  journey's  end,  I  grew  calmer.  I 
had  no  desire  to  draw  back.  I  had  no  fear.  The  thing 
which  was  before  me  never  assumed  any  definite  shape! 
It  was  there — in  the  background — a  dim,  floating  pur- 
pose, never  once  oppressing  me,  never  forcing  its  way 
forward  in  my  mind  for  more  definite  consideration, 
and  only  showing  itself  at  all  in  a  vague,  lurid  glow 
which  seemed  to  change  even  the  shapes  of  all  the 
gruesome  surroundings  of  my  dismal  walk.  Towards 
the  end  of  my  expedition  this  became  even  more 
marked.  My  thoughts  had  recoiled  from  the  present 
to  the  past.  Vague  pictures  of  the  days  that  had  gone 
by  seemed  floating  before  my  eyes.  I  saw  myself  in 
the  convent  garden,  with  all  my  little  world  enclosed 
in  those  four  walls,  and  I  heard  the  shrill  laughter  of 
the  girls  with  whom  I  was  walking,  and  I  even  fancied 
that  I  could  catch  the  perfume  of  the  lilac  trees  which 
drooped  over  the  smoothly  kept  lawn.  And  then  the 
picture  faded  away,  and  from  the  vessel's  side  I  saw 
Cruta,  a  purple-topped  island  rising  like  some  precious 
jewel  from  the  sea!  I  shuddered  at  the  memory  of 
that  face,  which  soon  became  a  living  dread  to  me,  and 
I  heard  again  the  passionate  voice  of  a  dark-robed  man 
reading  poetry,  and  crushing  with  white,  nervous  fin- 
gers the  hyacinths  whose  odour  was  making  the  air 
faint.  I  saw  his  white,  sad  face,  in  which  the  struggle 
of  the  man  against  himself  was  already  born — born, 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  279 

alas!  in  those  long  mornings  by  the  sea,  at  my  uncon- 
scious bidding!  And  soon  Cruta  too,  faded  away,  and 
you,  Paul,  my  love,  my  dear,  dear  love,  your  face  came 
to  me.  Almost  my  eyes  closed,  almost  I  stayed  here 
to  dream.  Ah!  how  the  magic  of  this  love,  this  won- 
derful love,  lightens  my  little  world!  My  heart  is 
stirred  to  music,  my  blood  is  dancing.  I  am  chilled 
no  longer.  Ah !  Paul,  it  is  for  you  that  I  strike  this 
blow,  for  you  that  I  tread  this  stony  way.  It  is  sweet 
to  think  of  it.  I  go  on  as  blithely  as  ever  village 
maiden  stepped  forward  to  her  wedding.  The  way  is 
as  sweet  to  me  as  a  garden  of  roses.  Your  face,  too. 
is  dying  out  of  my  thoughts,  Paul.  Farewell !  Fare- 
well! 

***** 

The  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death!  Did  any  one 
speak  those  words  ?  What  an  evil  fancy !  Yet  the  air 
seemed  full  of  whisperings.  The  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death !  Yes !  it  might  be  that,  and  these  cold,  grey 
boulders  the  spirits  of  the  evil  ones  risen  up  out  of 
Hades.  Is  there  a  hell,  I  wonder?  How  chill  and 
dark  the  air  seems!  There  is  death  about! 
***** 

The  sound  of  a  single  bell  broke  in  upon  my  thoughts. 
I  raised  my  eyes.  My  journey  was  accomplished. 
Before  me  was  a  grim,  stern  building,  and  attached  to 
it  a  chapel.  It  was  the  monastery  of  St.  Bernard. 


280  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


OHAPTEE    XXXI 

"  ADREA'S  DIARY  " 

"Farewell  to  the  dead  ashes  of  life." 

THE  path  which  I  had  been  following  led  straight  up 
to  the  bare,  arched  door  of  the  building.  I  had  reached 
it  unmolested,  and  rang  the  bell. 

What  a  hoarse,  clanging  sound!  I  shivered  as  I 
stood  there  listening  to  its  gloomy  echoes  until  they 
died  away.  No  one  came.  The  place  seemed  wrapped 
in  an  austere  silence.  I  listened,  but  I  could  hear  no 
sound  within;  only  the  dull,  melancholy  sighing  of  the 
wind  amongst  a  sickly  avenue  of  firs  behind. 

I  stretched  out  my  hand,  and  rang  again.  Almost 
before  the  echoes  had  died  away  I  heard  footsteps 
within.  A  haavy  bolt  was  withdrawn,  and  a  dark- 
robed  monk  stood  on  the  threshold  before  me.  He 
recoiled  for  a  moment  at  seeing  a  woman,  and  I  thought 
that  he  would  have  closed  the  door,  but  he  did  not. 

"What  would  you  have  at  this  hour,  sister?"  he 
asked  sternly,  "  The  chapel  is  closed,  and  morning  is 
the  time  for  dispensing  charity." 


"ADREA'S  DIARY  "  281 

"  I  have  come  in  search  of  a  priest  who  is  only  a 
visitor  here,"  I  said.  "  Father  Adrian  he  is  called!  " 

He  seemed  still  indisposed  to  admit  me.  "  Is  your  bus- 
iness urgent?"  he  asked  doubtfully.  " Father  Adrian 
is  at  his  devotions,  and  must  not  be  lightly  disturbed." 

"  It  is  urgent,"  I  answered. 

He  beckoned  me  to  follow  him,  and  in  silence  led 
me  a  few  yards  down  a  bare  stone  corridor.  Then  he 
threw  open  the  door  of  a  small  room,  and  bade  me 
enter. 

"  This  is  the  guest-chamber,"  he  said.  "  Wait  here, 
and  I  will  summon  Father  Adrian !  " 

He  closed  the  door  and  disappeared.  The  interior 
of  the  room  in  which  he  had  left  me  was  bare  and 
chilling.  I  turned  from  it  to  the  window.  Almost 
opposite  was  a  small  eminence,  and  at  its  summit  a 
rude  cross  of  Calvary.  A  dark  figure,  with  clasped 
hands  and  bent  head,  was  slowly  descending  the  path. 

Even  at  that  distance  I  thought  I  recognised  the  walk, 
and  as  he  came  nearer  I  saw  that  he  was  wearing  the 
ordinary  garb  of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  instead  of  the 
monk's  robes.  I  stood  close  to  the  window  watching  him, 
and  as  he  crossed  the  open  space  before  the  door  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  saw  me.  How  he  started,  and  how  his 
eyes  seemed  to  burn  in  their  sockets!  Doubtless  he 
would  have  turned  paler,  but  he  was  already  deathly 


283  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

white.  He  stood  there,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  with 
his  eyes  fastened  wildly  upon  me,  as  though  an  appari- 
tion had  appeared  before  him.  Then  he  took  a  quick  step 
forward ;  I  heard  the  great  front  door  creak  and  groan 
upon  its  hinges,  and  almost  as  soon  as  I  could  turn 
round  he  was  on  the  threshold  before  me. 

"Adrea!  Adrea!"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  suppressed 
whisper  which  shook  with  passion.  "You  here!  What 
has  happened?  Stand  in  the  light!  Let  me  see  your 
face!" 

I  moved  a  step  towards  him,  and  raised  my  veil.  "  I 
am  lonely,"  I  said  softly.  "Was  it  very  wrong  of  me 
to  come  here?" 

He  stood  before  me,  with  hungry,  incredulous  eyes 
fastened  upon  my  face,  as  though  he  would  see  through 
it  into  my  false  heart.  Yet  I  did  not  flinch ;  I  was 
actress  euougli  for  my  part.  I  watched  him  tremble — 
watched  the  colour  flush  into  his  face  and  die  away.  It 
was  a  very  storm  of  passion  which  shook  him  before  he 
could  find  the  words  to  answer  me. 

'4  Adrea!  Adrea!  have  you  come  here  to  mock  me? 
AH  you  are  a  woman,  I  implore  you  to  spare  me !  Speak 
the  truth!" 

I  answered  him  softly,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  "  I  came  because  I  was  lonely.  Let  us  go 
away  from  .here!  Come  home  with  me! " 


"ADREA 8  IH A RT"  383 

"Home  with  you!  Home  with  you!  "  He  repeated 
my  invitation.  He  scarcely  seemed  to  understand. 

"Yes!  I  was  very  silly  the  other  day!  I  did  not 
understand  you!  I  did  not  understand  myself!  And 
you  see  I  have  humbled  myself  very  much !  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  so!  Am  I  forgiven?  " 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  his.  and  added  in  a  half  whisper: 
"  Won't  you  come  home  with  me,  and  read  aloud,  as  we 
used  to  on  the  rocks  at  Cruta  ? 

He  stood  there  as  though  fascinated.  I  began  to 
feel  impatient,  but  I  dared  not  show  any  signs  of  it. 

Suddenly  he  took  a  quick  step  towards  me,  and 
before  I  could  prevent  it  he  had  thrown  himself  at  my 
feet  on  the  cold  stone  floor,  and  was  holding  my  hands 
tightly  in  his. 

"Adrea!"  he  cried,  his  voice  choked  with  passion, 
"is  this  thing  true?  My  brain  reels  with  the  delight 
of  it;  but,  oh,  forgive  me  if  I  seem  to  doubt!  I  know 
nothing  of  women,  but  surely  your  lips  could  never 
lie!  You  are  not  mocking  me?  Oh,  Adrea,  my  love, 
lift  up  your  eyes  and  swear  that  this  is  no  dream.  I 
am  dizzy  with  joy!  Speak  to  me!  Let  me  look  into 
your  face!  I  am  not  doubting  you,  yet  say  it  once 
more!  Tell  me  it  is  not  a  dream!" 

I  lied  to  him  with  my  face,  and  with  my  eyes,  and 
with  my  lips.  "  It  is  no  dream,"  I  said  softly.  "  I 


284  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

have  come  to  you,  Adrian,  because  I  want  you.  No 
one  else  would  do." 

He  stood  up,  pale  and  shaken.  His  voice  was  still 
full  of  deep,  throbbing  earnestness.  "Adrea!"  he 
cried,  "  to-day  I  have  been  fighting  a  grim  fight. 
Look  into  my  face  and  mark  its  traces.  I  am  desper- 
ate! For  hours  I  have  knelt  on  what  was  once  a  hal- 
lowed spot.  In  vain!  In  vain!  On  my  knees  before 
the  cross  of  Calvary  I  have  striven  to  pray,  as  a  man 
wrestles  for  his  life  with  the  waves  of  a  great  ocean. 
Alas!  alas!  In  the  twilight  I  fancied  always  that  your 
face  was  moving  amongst  the  shadows,  and  even  the 
breeze  which  rustled  in  the  shrubs  around  seemed  ever 
to  be  murmuring  your  name.  Oh,  my  love,  my  love, 
sometimes  I  wonder  that  I  have  lived  through  the 
anguish  of  these  days.  But  it  is  over!  You  have  come 
to  me,  and  the  evil  days  are  past.  I  renounce  my 
priesthood!  It  has  become  only  a  barren  farce  to  me! 
Heaven  or  holl,  what  matters  it  ?  I  leave  here  with 
you  to-night  never  to  return!  Never!  never!  never!  " 

He  pressed  hot  kisses  upon  my  hands;  they  stung 
me  like  molten  lead,  but  I  did  not  withdraw  them. 
Then  he  rose  up  and  held  out  his  arms  to  me  with  a 
great  yearning  stealing  into  his  dark  eyes.  But  I  kept 
him  awt4,y. 

"  Not  here!  not  here!  "  I  cried.  "  I  heard  footsteps 
outside.  Let  us  go!" 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  285 

"You  are  right,"  he  answered.  "  Wait  for  me ;  I 
have  but  few  preparations  to  make." 

He  left  me,  and  I  breathed  freely  again.  I  had  no 
fears,  no  hesitation.  I  never  dreamt  of  turning  back ; 
but  I  began  to  find  my  task  more  difficult  even  than  I 
had  imagined.  It  was  his  touch,  his  passionate  looks 
and  words  which  were  so  hard  to  endure.  My  lips 
could  lie,  but  it  was  hard  to  govern  my  looks ;  and  oh, 
how  I  hated  him ! 

Soon  he  was  back — too  soon  for  me;  and  then  we 
left  the  place.  He  had  changed  his  clothes,  and,  to 
my  surprise,  he  wore  an  ordinary  dark  walking  suit 
and  a  long  ulster.  He  had  discarded  the  priest  alto- 
gether. 

At  the  bend  he  looked  back.  There  was  a  rift  in  the 
clouds  just  behind  the  hill  of  Calvary,  and  the  rude 
cross  stood  out  vividly  against  the  sky.  "At  last!" 
he  murmured;  "at  last!  Farewell  to  the  dead  ashes 
of  life !  It  is  rest  to  have  ended  the  struggle,  even  to 
have  fallen.  My  new  life  is  here!  " 

He  touched  my  hand  fondly,  and  held  it  within  his 
own.  "How  deathly  cold  your  hand  is,  Adrea!"  he 
said.  "  It  is  the  night  air.  You  are  well,  are  you 
not  ?  "  he  added  anxiously. 

"Quite  well;  only  tired." 

He  took  my  arm.  I  could  not  resist  him,  only  I 
walked  the  more  swiftly.  He  tried  to  check  me,  but  I 


286  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

shook  my  head.  "  I  am  cold  and  tired,"  I  told  him. 
"  This  desolate  walk  frightened  me,  and  even  with  you 
I  think  I  am  a  little  nervous.  Let  us  hurry.  Hark! 
What  was  that?" 

"A  bittern  in  the  marshes!  Why,  Adrea,  how 
frightened  you  are!  It  is  not  like  you!  " 

"I  know  it,"  I  answered;  "but  to-night — to-night 
the  air  seems  full  of  whisperings  and  strange  sounds. 
Yes,  I  am  frightened." 

I  shivered  as  I  spoke.  He  would  have  drawn  me 
closer  to  him,  but  I  waved  him  away.  How  could  he 
know  anything  of  the  horrors  of  that  walk  for  me! 
Strange  phantoms  seemed  ever  rising  from  the  sea, 
stalking  across  the  path,  and  away  over  the  moor,  and 
passing  and  repassing,  grinning  and  whispering  in  my 
ear.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  though  I  could  have 
touched  them  by  stretching  out  my  hand;  but  when  I 
tried,  my  fingers  closed  upon  thin  air.  What  were 
they?  Why  had  they  come  to  torment  me?  Was  it 
because  they  scented  an  evil  deed?  Would  they  haunt 
me  for  ever  like  this  ?  What  folly !  If  I  gave  way  so 
I  should  soon  be  altogether  unnerved,  and  my  task  was 
still  before  me.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  opened  them 

again.    They  had  gone!  It  was  good!  I  had  conquered ! 

****** 

It  was  late,  and  we  had  eaten  and  drunk  together. 
He  was  lying  back  in  an  easy-chair,  flushed,  and 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  387 

strange  to  say,  wonderfully  handsome.  The  hollows 
in  his  cheeks  seemed  suddenly  filled  up,  and  his  eyes 
were  soft  and  bright.  I  sat  at  his  feet  looking  into 
the  firelight. 

"  Will  you  answer  me  some  questions,  Adrian?"  I 
asked.  "  There  has  been  so  much  mystery  around  us 
lately,  and,  like  a  woman,  I  am  curious." 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  anything,"  he  answered.  "  Am 
I  not  your  slave,  dearest?  Only  ask  me  them  quickly. 
There  are  many  things  I  have  to  talk  about.  What  was 
that ?"  he  added  quickly.  "Is  there  any  one  else  in 
this  room?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "No  one;  it  was  fancy.  Tell 
me,  who  was  Madame  de  Merteuill  ?  " 

"My  mother!" 

"Your  mother?" 

"  Yes;  and  the  old  Count  of  Cruta  is  my  grandfather. 
Madame  de  Merteuill  is  his  daughter.  But  that  is  not 
her  real  name!" 

There  was  a  high  screen  just  behind  his  chair, — a 
japanned  one,  which  seemed  to  have  been  badly  used, 
for  there  was  a  great  hole  in  it.  While  we  had  been 
talking  a  strange  thing  had  happened.  A  man's  hand 
had  slowly  been  thrust  through,  and  a  crumpled  piece 
of  paper  was  dropped  upon  the  carpet  I  moved  to  his 
side,  and  raised  the  cushion  in  his  chair.  Before  1 


288  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

could  help  it  he  had  caught  my  face,  and  pressed  a  hot, 
burning  kiss  upon  my  cheek.  I  dared  not  struggle.  I 
had  to  yield,  and  endure  for  a  moment  his  passionate 
embrace.  Then  I  dropped  my  handkerchief  upon  the 
piece  of  paper,  and  picked  up  both  hastily. 

"Will  you  tell  me  something  else,  please?" 

"  Anything  you  ask !     You  know  that  I  will ! " 

"  The  De  Vaux  estates " 

"  Are  mine.  I  am  the  son  of  Martin  de  Vaux.  Paul 
de  Vaux  has  no  claim  at  all.  If  I  had  remained  in  the 
Church,  it  was  my  intention  to  found  a  great  monas- 
tery here.  But  now " 

"Well?" 

"  Everything  is  yours ! " 

"  There  was  a  moment's  silence.  I  drew  the  piece 
of  paper  from  my  pocket,  as  though  by  accident,  and 
read  it  to  myself.  There  were  only  a  few  hastily 
scrawled  lines: — 

"  I  dare  not  do  it.  I  am  afraid.  I  will  put  the  knife 
on  the  floor." 

I  glanced  towards  the  hole.  The  hand  was  there, 
holding  a  long,  gleaming  dagger.  It  laid  it  noise- 
lessly upon  the  carpet,  and  was  withdrawn.  I  went 
over  to  his  side,  and  knelt  down  there. 

"Aid  what  will  become  of  Paul  de  Vaux?"  I  asked. 

He   laughed  grimly.     "He  must  take  his  chance. 


"ADREA'S  DIARY"  289 

He  knows  the  whole  story.  He  has  known  since  last 
night  Adrea,  tell  me  once  more,"  he  pleaded:  "you 
never  loved  him  really, — say  that  you  never  did! " 

"  Are  you  jealous,  sir  ?  "  I  asked  lightly.  My  left 
hand  was  wandering  down  his  side!  Ah!  there  was 
his  heart!  How  it  was  beating!  My  right  hand  was 
on  the  floor,  cautiously  feeling  its  way  towards  the 
screen.  It  reached  the  dagger!  I  clutched  it  by  the 
hilt!  Now  was  the  time.  There  was  his  heart.  I  knew 
the  exact  spot. 

"Adrea,  are  you  ill?"  he  asked.  "  How  white  and 
strange  you  look!  Ah!" 

***** 

It  was  done!  Lucrezia  Borgia  could  not  have  bungled 
less!  He  lay  doubled  up  in  the  chair,  with  a  long 
Genoese  dagger  buried  in  his  heart,  and  it  was  I  who 
had  done  it! 

Gomez  crawled  from  behind  the  screen,  and  looked 
first  at  him  and  then  at  me  with  protruding  eyes.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  his  teeth  chattered. 

"It  is  done!"  I  said  calmly,  "and  you  are  saved, 
Paul,  my  love,"  I  whispered  to  myself.  "  Be  a  man, 
Gomez.  We  must  carry  it  into  the  wood.  Lift  him 
gently;  there  must  be  no  blood  here." 

It  took  all  our  strength  to  move  him,  and  we  had  to 
drag  him,  yard  by  yard,  down  the  avenue  and  across 
the  road  into  the  little  wood. 


290 

My  pen  is  weary  of  horrors.  The  memory  of  that 
hour  is  not  to  be  written  about  But  when  he  turned 
away  I  took  the  flowers  which  he  had  begged  for  from 
my  corsage  and  threw  them  down  amongst  the  wet 
leaves.  It  was  my  sole  moment  of  relenting. 


• '  THE  L  ORD  OF  CM  UTA  •  891 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

"THE   LORD   OP   OBUTA " 

A  STBANGE  figure  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  castle 
cliff,  looking  across  the  bay  of  Cruta  to  the  sea.  He 
was  tall,  loose  jointed,  and  gaunt,  and  the  long  grey 
beard  and  unkempt  locks  of  flowing  hair  which  streamed 
behind  in  the  breeze  showed  that  he  was  an  old 
man ;  but  his  eyes,  set  back  in  deep  hollows,  and  fringed 
with  long,  bushy  grey  lashes,  were  still  dark  and 
piercing.  Great  passions  had  branded  his  face  with 
deep-set  lines,  but  had  failed  to  belittle  him.  On  the 
contrary,  his  presence,  though  forbidding  and  awe- 
some, was  full  of  latent  strength  and  dignity.  To  the 
islanders,  who  never  mentioned  their  lord's  name  save 
with  bated  breath  and  after  having  zealously  crossed 
themselves,  he  was  the  object  of  the  most  unbounded 
superstition.  His  personality  and  the  strangeness  of 
his  habits  appalled  them.  They  scarcely  believed  him 
a  being  of  the  same  world  as  their  own.  The  most 
ignorant  amongst  them  firmly  believed  that  the  sea 
obeyed  his  uplifted  hand,  and  that  when  he  spoke  the 


293  A  MONK  OF  CBUTA 

thunder  rolled  amongst  the  hills.  When  stories  were 
told  of  the  mystery  and  strange  isolation  in  which  he 
lived,  they  nodded  their  heads  and  were  willing  to  be- 
lieve everything.  No  one  ever  met  him  or  had  speech 
with  him,  for  twenty  years  had  passed  since  he  had 
issued  from  the  castle  gates.  But  sometimes,  most 
often  when  a  storm  was  brewing,  they  could  see 
a  tall,  dark  figure  standing  on  the  giddy  edge  of  the 
castle  wall  which  overhung  the  sea,  or  walking,  with 
slow,  stately  movements,  up  and  down  the  narrow  foot- 
path at  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  If  the  moon  had  risen, 
or  the  sky  were  clear  beyond,  they  could  see  the  huge, 
gaunt  figure  outlined  with  grim  distinctness  against 
the  empty  background,  always  with  his  face  to  the  sea, 
and  with  a  long  black  cloak  flowing  behind.  It  was 
not  often  that  they  saw  him,  but  when  they  did  they 
told  one  another  in  whispers ;  and  though  the  sky  were 
cloudless  and  the  sea  calm,  the  women  whose  husbands 
were  out  in  their  fishing  boats  beyond  the  bay  told 
their  beads  and  prayed  for  their  safe  return,  and  those 
who  had  remained  behind  prepared  for  rough  weather. 
Once,  at  a  marriage  feast,  when  all  the  little  village 
was  making  merry,  the  whisper  had  gone  about  that 
"  the  Count  was  walking; "  and  immediately  they  had 
all  departed  for  their  homes  in  fear  and  silence,  and 
the  luckless  bride  and  bridegroom  had  hastened  to  the 


"THE  LORD  OF  CRUTA"  293 

priest  and  besought  him  to  unloose  the  knot,  that  they 
might  celebrate  their  wedding  on  some  less  ill-omened 
day. 

To-night  the  storm  was  already  breaking  when  the 
Count  appeared  on  the  castle  wall  and  turned  his  face 
seaward.  One  by  one  the  fishing  smacks  were  cross- 
ing the  gathering  line  of  surf,  and  gaining  the  deep, 
still  waters  of  the  bay.  As  they  passed  underneath 
the  towering  mass  of  granite  rock,  against  the  base  of 
which  the  waters  were  boiling  and  seething,  the  men 
in  the  boats  gazed  fearfully  up  at  that  black  speck  far 
away  above  their  heads,  and  crossed  themselves.  The 
Count  had  stood  there  for  an  hour,  they  whispered, 
ever  since  that  piled-up  mass  of  angry,  lurid  clouds 
had  first  gathered,  and  a  warning  breath  of  wind  had 
swept  across  the  smooth,  glass-like  surface  of  the 
water,  now  troubled  and  restless.  Not  one  of  them 
doubted  but  that  his  coming  had  brought  the  storm ; 
but  there  was  not  one  of  them  who  dared  to  utter  a 
word  of  complaint.  Only  they  stood  up  in  their  boats, 
and  shielding  their  eyes  with  an  uplifted  hand  from 
the  fierce  rays  of  the  sinking  sun,  gazed  out  seaward, 
searching  for  the  boats  not  yet  in  safety 

Suddenly  a  little  murmur  arose  from  amongst  them, 
and  a  word  was  passed  from  one  to  another  of  their 
little  crafts.  The  blinding  glare  of  the  sun  and  its  re- 


294  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

flection,  stretched  far  away  across  the  surface  of  the  sea, 
had  dazzled  their  eyes,  and  for  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour  they  had  seen  nothing  on  the  westward  horizon. 
But  now  the  bright  silver  light  was  fading  into  a  dull, 
glorious  purple ;  and  full  upon  its  bosom  a  strange  sail 
was  seen,  making  direct  for  the  harbour.  The  sunlight 
was  still  flashing  upon  its  white  sails, — little  specks  of 
gold  upon  a  background  of  richer  colouring — and  they 
saw  that  she  was  a  handsome,  shapely-looking  vessel 
very  different  to  the  dirty  Italian  lugger  which  put  in 
at  their  harbour  for  a  few  hours  week  by  week. 

"Will  she  need  a  pilot  ?"  cried  Francesco,  rising 
in  his  boat,  and  watching  the  stranger.  "  Let  us  wait 
here,  and  see  if  she  signals  for  one !  " 

"Let  us  all  go!  There  will  be  something  for  each!  " 
cried  another. 

"We  will  race,"  Antonio  answered,  whose  boat  was 
the  fastest.  The  first  to  reach  her  shall  have  the 
stranger's  money!" 

"No,  no!  that  is  not  fair,"  chorused  the  others. 
"We  will  draw  lots!" 

Then  up  rose  old  Guiseppe,  the  father  of  them  all. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  turned  a  sorrowing  face  sea- 
wards. "  Peace!  children.  You  are  like  chattering 
seabirds  squabbling  over  a  bait  which  will  never  be 
yours.  Yonder  ship  will  need  no  pilot!  She  is  no 
stranger  to  Crutal  ** 


"THE  LORD  OF  CRUTA"  29.3 

They  looked  at  her,  and  shook  their  heads.  "  We 
iiave  never  seen  her  before,"  they  said. 

"  Some  of  you  are  too  young  to  remember  her,"  the 
old  man  continued,  "  and  you  were  all  away  when  she 
was  here  within  a  twelvemonth  ago!  But  I  know  her! 
Three  times  has  she  entered  this  harbour,  and  each 
time  has  she  left  sorrow  and  grief  behind  her.  It  is 
the  ship  of  the  English  lord  who  stole  away  the 
daughter  of  our  Count  many  years  ago!" 

There  was  a  little  murmur  of  suppressed  wonder. 
Then,  as  though  moved  by  a  common  instinct,  every 
face  was  turned  upward  to  the  castle  wall. 

The  Count  had  gone.  But,  even  as  they  looked,  he 
reappeared,  leading  another  figure  by  the  hand.  They 
held  their  breath  with  wonder.  No  one  had  ever  seen 
him  there  save  alone,  and  now  a  woman  stood  by  his 
side.  They  could  see  nothing  of  her,  save  her  long 
hair  flowing  in  the  breeze,  and  the  bare  outline  of  her 
figure.  "Who  was  she?  Guiseppe  must  know!  Who 
was  she?"  they  asked  him  eagerly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Better  not  ask,"  he  answered. 
Better  not  know!  Strange  things  have  happened  up 
there!  It  is  not  for  us  to  chatter  of  them! " 

"  One  night  as  I  sailed  homeward,"  Antonio  said,  in 
a  low  tone,  "I  heard  strange  cries  from  the  castle. 
The  night  was  still,  and  the  breeze  brought  the  sound 


296  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

to  my  ears.  They  came  from  up  above,  and  when  I 
strained  my  eyes  I  fancied  that  I  could  see  a  white 
figure — the  figure  of  a  woman — standing  on  the  castle 
walls.  She  was  crying  for  help,  but  suddenly,  as 
though  a  hand  were  placed  over  her  mouth,  her  cries 
ceased,  and  the  figure  vanished.  It  was  three  nights 
before  the  English  lord  died  at  the  monastery!" 

Ferdinand  stood  up.  "On  that  same  night,"  he 
said,  in  a  low,  hoarse  whisper,  "I  saw  a  figure  steal  up 
the  path  to  the  castle.  It  was  the  English  lord!  On 
the  morrow  I  traced  him  back  again  with  drops  of 
blood.  They  led  right  into  the  monastery  courtyard. 
Two  days  afterwards  he  died." 

"Silence!  all  of  you!"  commanded  Guiseppe,  with 
shaking  voice.  "  Are  these  things  to  be  spoken  of 
thus  openly?  Know  you  not,  you  children,  that  the 
winds  have  ears,  and  he  listens  there  above  us." 

"It  is  a  thousand  feet!"  muttered  Antonio.  "To 
him  our  boats  can  seem  only  as  specks  upon  the 
water." 

"You  fool!"  answered  Guiseppe.  "Do  you  think 
that  the  man  whose  presence  brings  storm  and  wind 
upon  us  is  like  ordinary  men  ?  Do  you  think  he  can- 
not hear  what  he  chooses!  " 

"  Ave  Maria!  "  cried  Antonio,  crossing  himself.  "  I 
would  as  soon  face  the  devil  himself  as  the  Count!  I 


"THE  LORD  OF  GRUTA"  297 

shall  ask  Father  Bernard  to  say  a  prayer  for  me  to- 
night!" 

"Do!  and  I  hope  his  penance  will  be  a  stiff  one," 
answered  Guiseppe  grimly.  "  Come,  let  us  trim  our 
sails,  and  get  homeward.  The  English  ship  will  not 
want  us,  and  we  can  watch  who  lands  from  the 
beach." 

"  'Twould  be  no  such  bad  thing  if  she  struck  on  the 
rocks,  if  she  brings  such  ill  luck  to  the  castle,"  mut- 
tered Antonio,  as  he  unfurled  the  sail  and  grasped  the 
tiller.  "  There  would  be  some  pickings  for  us,  beyond 
doubt — some  pretty  pickings!  " 


A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


"  THE   DAWN   OF   A   SHOKT,    SWEET   LIFE  " 

THE  little  group  of  fishing  smacks,  homely-looking 
and  uncleanly,  on  close  examination,  presented  a  very 
different  appearance  from  the  deck  of  the  English 
yacht  fast  nearing  the  harbour.  Their  brown  sails 
had  gleamed  purple  in  the  dying  sunlight,  and  their 
rude  outline  seemed  graceful  and  shapely  as  they  rose 
and  fell  on  the  long  waves.  Paul,  who  stood  on  the 
captain's  bridge  of  his  yacht,  uttered  a  little  cry  of  ad- 
miration as  they  sailed  out  from  the  shadows  of  the 
huge  rock,  and  fell  into  a  rude  semicircle  across  the 
bay. 

"What  colouring  one  sees  in  these  southern  waters!" 
he  remarked.  "  Did  you  notice  the  glinting  light  on 
those  sails?" 

His  companion,  who  was  holding  firmly  the  rail  by 
his  side,  looked  up  and  smiled.  "Yes,"  she  said  softly; 
"  it  is  beautiful!  We  have  seen  more  beautiful  things 
on  this  voyage,  I  think,  than  I  ever  saw  before  in 
my  life.  I  have  never  been  so  happy!  You  are  not 
angry  with  me  now  for  coming,  are  you?" 


"  THE  DAWN  OF  A  SHORT,  SWEET  LIFE"       299 

He  looked  down  into  her  wistful,  upturned  face,  and 
then  away  to  the  distant  line  where  sea  and  sky  met. 
"No!  I  am  not  angry,"  he  said  softly. 

Adrea  was  very  beautiful.  The  fresh  sea  air  and 
the  southern  sun  had  been  as  kind  to  her  as  to  one  of 
their  own  daughters.  Only  a  very  faint,  delicate 
shade  of  pink  had  stained  her  clear,  transparent  skin, 
harmonising  exquisitely  with  the  slight  olive  hue  of 
her  complexion.  The  strong  breeze  had  loosened  the 
coils  of  her  dark  hair,  and  it  was  waving  and  flowing 
in  picturesque  freedom  about  her  face.  There  was  a 
change,  too,  in  her  appearance,  greater  than  any  the 
wind  or  sun  could  effect.  Her  dark  eyes  were  glowing 
with  a  new  life,  and  a  soft,  wistful  joy  shone  in  her 
face.  Those  few  days  had  been  like  heaven  for  her. 
She  had  been  alone,  for  the  first  time,  with  the  man 
she  loved;  sailing  upon  a  sunlit  sea  hour  after  hour, 
with  his  voice  ever  in  her  ears,  and  his  tall  figure  by 
her  side.  The  sense  of  his  presence  was  ever  upon 
her,  bringing  with  it  a  calm,  sweet  restfulness,  a  hap- 
piness beyond  anything  which  she  had  ever  imagined. 

And  it  was  heaven,  too,  after  hell!  Thrust  away  in 
a  dark  corner  of  her  memory  was  the  recollection  of  a 
day  and  a  night  full  of  grim,  phantasmal  horrors,  which 
were  fast  becoming  little  more  than  a  dream  to  her. 
The  time  was  not  yet  come  for  remorse.  In  that  deep 


800  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

glow  of  passionate  and  self-forgetful  devotion,  quick- 
ened now  into  fullest  and  sweetest  life  by  his  constant 
proximity,  even  sin  itself,  for  his  sake,  seemed  justified 
to  her.  Everything,  too,  which  lay  behind  her  brief 
stay  in  that  bare,  wind-swept  country  was  fast  assum- 
ing a  far  distant  place  in  her  thoughts.  It  was  such  a 
change  from  her  little  rooms  in  Grey  Street,  dainty 
and  home-like  though  they  had  been,  from  the  brill- 
iantly lit  drawing-rooms  where  she  had  performed, 
and  the  same  wearisome  compliments  ever  in  her  ears. 
The  bonds  of  town  life  had  always  galled  her.  She 
was  an  artist,  although  she  had  denied  it.  She  had 
become  subject  to  her  environment  but  it  had  been  an 
imprisonment.  Nature  was  her  mother,  and  Nature 
had  claimed  her  now.  She  knew  it  all ;  she  knew  that 
she  could  never  be  a  dancer  again.  She  had  stolen  out 
on  to  the  deck  each  morning  in  her  slippers,  and  had 
seen  the  dawn  break  through  the  clouds  and  descend 
upon  the  quivering  waters.  She  had  seen  the  eastern 
sky  streaked  with  faint  but  marvellous  colouring, 
growing  deeper  and  deeper,  until  the  sun's  rim  had 
risen  from  out  of  the  water.  Grey  ha<i  become  mauve, 
and  white  amber.  It  was  wonderful!  And  by  night 
she  had  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  yacht,  and  looked 
up  into  a  sky  ablaze  with  trembling  stars,  casting  their 
golden  reflections  down  upon  the  boundless  wave** 


"  THE  DAWN  OF  A  SHORT,  SWEET  LIFE"       301 

which  rose  and  fell  beneath— waves  which  were  some- 
times green,  and  sometimes  golden  in  the  wonderful 
phosphoric  light  which  touched  them  with  a  weird 
splendour.  It  was  like  the  opening  of  a  new  world  to 
Adrea.  All  that  had  gone  before  seemed  harsh  and 
artificial !  It  was  the  dawn  of  a  new  life. 

Paul  had  noticed  the  change.  To  him  it  had  appeared 
chiefly  as  an  increased  womanliness,  a  gentle  softness 
of  speech  and  mannerism  very  charming  and  attractive. 
Those  few  days  at  sea  together  had  been  like  a  dream 
to  him.  He  had  come  on  board  as  nearly  broken- 
hearted as  a  strong  man  could  be,  and  fiercely  anxious 
to  reach  his  destination  and  know  the  whole,  cruel 
truth.  In  a  few  hours  all  had  been  changed.  His 
sorrows  seemed  numbed.  He  was  no  longer  battling 
alone  with  his  grief.  Adrea  knew  all,  and  as  they 
sailed  southwards  together,  the  sense  of  the  present 
was  strong  enough  to  drive  past  and  future  from  his 
thoughts.  The  clouds  cleared  from  his  face,  and  his 
heart  was  lightened.  It  was  Adrea  who  had  saved 
him  from  despair. 

He  thought  of  this  as  she  stood  by  his  side,  and 
he  answered  her  question.  Before  their  eyes,  Cruta 
was  rising  up  from  the  sea.  The  grim  castle  was 
there,  looking  as  old  as  the  rocks  on  which  it  was 
perched,  the  wide,  open  harbour,  and  the  little  fleet 


303  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

of  fishing  smacks.  The  seabirds  circled  about  their 
heads;  every  moment  brought  the  rocky  little  island 
more  distinctly  into  view.  Paul  looked  down  into 
Adrea's  face  gravely. 

"It  is  our  destination,  Adrea,"  he  said.  "You 
must  go  now.  There  will  be  a  lot  of  surf  crossing 
the  bar,  and  I  shall  have  enough  to  do  to  run  her 
in.  Look  behind!  It  is  just  as  well  we  are  going 
into  harbour!" 

He  pointed  to  the  fast-gathering  clouds  coming  up 
from  the  westward,  and  she  paused  with  her  foot  on 
the  ladder.  "  We  leave  the  storm  behind  us,"  she 
said.  "There  is  fair  weather  ahead!" 

She  went  down  into  her  cabin,  and  left  Paul  upon 
the  bridge,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  castle.  Fair 
weather  ahead  !  How  dared  he  hope  for  it!  The  sun 
had  finally  disappeared  now,  but  some  part  of  the 
afterglow  still  lingered  in  curious  contrast  to  the 
lurid  yellow  and  black  clouds  hurrying  on  behind 
him.  The  old  castle  was  bathed  for  a  moment  in  a 
sea  of  purple  light, — every  line  of  it,  and  the  huge 
rock  which  it  crowned,  standing  out  with  peculiar 
vividness  against  the  empty  background.  But  it  was 
a  brief  glory.  Even  while  Paul  was  gazing,  the 
colouring  faded  away,  and  it  resumed  its  former  as- 
pect Fair  weather  ahead!  Every  moment,  as  mem- 


"  THE  DAWN  OF  A  SHORT,  SWEET  LIFE"       303 

ories  of  Ms  former  visit  to  the  place  thronged  in  upon 
him,  Paul  doubted  it  the  more. 

He  was  close  to  the  entrance  of  the  harbour  now, 
and  all  his  thoughts  and  energies  were  required  to  pilot 
his  yacht  safely.  In  a  few  moments  the  brief  line  was 
passed,  and  the  islanders  waiting  about  upon  the  beach 
saw  the  English  vessel  ride  smoothly  into  harbourage 
under  shadow  of  the  huge  castle  rock.  Presently  she 
dropped  an  anchor,  and  swung  gracefully  round.  A 
boat  was  lowered,  and  made  for  the  shore. 

There  were  plenty  of  hands  willing  to  help  pull  her 
in.  Paul  stepped  out  on  to  the  beach,  and  looked 
around  for  some  one  to  whom  he  could  make  himself 
understood. 

They  were  all  islanders  of  the  rudest  class;  but  see- 
ing no  one  else,  Paul  lifted  his  hand  to  the  castle,  and 
asked  them  the  way  in  Italian.  They  understood  him, 
and  pointed  along  the  beach  to  a  point  where  a  rude 
road  curved  inland,  and  reappeared  a  little  higher  up 
in  zigzag  fashion  behind  the  rocks.  But  no  one  offered 
to  go  a  step  with  him.  On  the  contrary,  directly  the 
question  had  left  his  lips,  they  all  shrunk  away,  whis- 
pering and  exclaiming  amongst  themselves. 

"  It  is  the  son  of  the  Englishman!"  cried  Antonio, 
"  He  is  going  into  the  lion's  mouth!  Do  not  let  us  be 
seen  with  him.  The  Count  may  be  watching." 


804  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  I  wonder  if  he  knows  his  danger?  "  Guiseppe  said 
thoughtfully.  "  He  is  young  and  brave  looking.  It 
would  be  a  good  action  to  warn  him." 

"  I  would  not  risk  it!  "  cried  Antonio. 

"Nor  I!"  echoed  Ferdinand. 

"  Nor  1 1"  chorused  the  others. 

Guiseppe  glanced  at  them  in  contempt.  Then  he 
stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  Paul's  shoulder 
— a  strange,  picturesque-looking  object,  in  his  bright 
scarlet  shirt,  and  trousers  turned  up  to  his  knees.  He 
had  been  in  Italy  once,  and  he  tried  to  speak  the 
language  of  that  country  as  well  as  he  could. 

"Illustrious  Englishman!"  he  said,  "go  not  to  that 
castle,  the  home  of  the  Count  of  Cruta.  Danger  lurks 
there  for  you — danger  and  death.  It  is  our  lord  who 
lives  there ;  we  are  his  vassals,  and  we  are  dumb.  But 
he  is  wild  and  fierce,  and  your  countrymen  are  like  dev- 
ils to  him.  Strange  things  have  happened  up  there. 
Be  wise.  Put  back  your  boat,  weigh  your  anchor  and 
sail  away.  The  stormy  seas  are  dangerous,  but  not  so 
dangerous  as  the  Castle  of  Cruta  to  an  Englishman  of 
your  features.  Take  the  word  of  Guiseppe, and  depart!  " 

Paul  shook  his  head.  He  understood  most  of  what 
Guiseppe  had  said,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  kindly 
meant.  "You  are  very  good,"  he  said.  "  I  thank  you 
for  your  warning;  but  I  have  important  business  with 


"  THE  DAWN  OF  A  SHORT,  SWEET  LIFE  "      305 

the  Count,  and  I  have  come  from  England  on  purpose 
to  see  him.  Here,  spend  this  for  me,"  he  added,  throw- 
ing a  handful  of  silver  money  amongst  the  little  group 
of  men.  "  Yonder  path  will  take  me  straight  to  the 
castle,  I  suppose.  Good  evening." 

He  strode  away  along  the  beach  alone.  Meanwhile 
a  strange  thing  was  happening.  The  islanders  were 
all  gathered  eagerly  around  the  little  shower  of  money, 
but  not  one  had  offered  to  touch  a  piece. 

"Holy  Mother!  there  are  fifty  pieces!"  cried 
Antonio.  "  If  only  I  was  sure  that  the  Count  would 
not  see  me!  I  would  keep  holiday  for  a  month,  and 
start  again  with  a  fresh  set  of  fishing  nets." 

"Touch  not  the  money!"  advised  Guiseppe,  shaking 
his  head.  "  The  Count's  eyes  are  everywhere! " 

"  It  is  very  hard ! "  groaned  Ferdinand.  "It  has  been 
such  a  bad  season,  too!  " 

"I  know!  I  know!"  cried  Antonio  excitedly.  We 
will  go  to  the  monastery,  and  get  Father  Bernard  to 
come  and  bless  it  He  will  claim  half  for  the  Church, 
but  we  can  divide  the  other  half,  and  we  shall,  each 
man,  have  given  six  pieces  in  charity.  What  say  you  ? 
shall  we  go?" 

"Bravo!  Antonio  is  right!  Antonio  is  a  sensible  fel- 
low! "  they  all  cried.  Then  there  was  the  sound  of 
bare  feet  scampering  over  the  hard  sands  as  they 


306  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

hastened  up  to  the  monastery.  Giuseppe  was  left  alone, 

He  waited  until  they  were  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
stooped  down,  and  carefully  collecting  all  the  coins, 
placed  them  in  his  pouch.  "Ignorant  fools!  "  he  mut- 
tered. "The  Count  can  see  no  further  than  other  men, 
and  at  any  rate  he  will  not  see  these  in  my  pocket." 

He  stood  up,  and  gazed  steadily  along  the  path 
which  Paul  had  taken.  "What  am  I  to  do  now?"  he 
continued.  "  It  is  to  the  Englishman's  father  that  I 
owe  my  boat  and  my  little  hoard  of  savings.  He  be- 
haved to  me  as  a  prince,  did  Signor  de  Vaux.  Can  I 
see  his  son  hasten  yonder  to  his  doom  without  one 
effort  to  save  him  ?  No.  The  Count  is  terrible,  but  I 
need  run  no  risk.  At  any  rate,  I  will  follow  a  little 
way." 

He  walked  swiftly  along  the  beach,  and  commenced 
the  ascent  to  the  castle.  In  a  few  minutes  the  little 
band  of  fishermen  returned,  carrying  lanterns  in  their 
hands,  and  with  a  priest  walking  amongst  them.  They 
reached  the  spot,  and  paused,  while  the  priest  com- 
menced to  mumble  a  prayer.  He  was  scarcely  half- 
way through  when  he  was  interrupted. 

"  The  money  is  gone! "  cried  Antonio. 

'* Every  piece!"  echoed  Ferdinand. 

There  was  a  moment's  blank  silence.  Then  they  all 
crossed  themselves.  "Let  us  go  home,"  whispered 


"  THE  DA  WN  OF  A  SHORT,  SWEET  LIFE  "       307 

Antonio  hoarsely.     "  The  Count  knows.    He  has  been 
here." 

The  priest  turned  away  disgusted,  and  the  others 
followed  him,  talking  with  bated  breath  amongst  them- 
selves. And,  in  the  darkness,  no  one  noticed  Guiseppe's 
absence. 


308  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

"  A  VOICE  AND  FIGUKE  FROM  THE  DISTANT  PAST  '' 

IT  was  a  long,  steep  ascent,  hewn  out  of  the  solid 
rock ;  but  at  last  Paul  stood  before  the  great  gates  of 
the  castle,  and  paused  to  take  breath.  Hundreds  of 
feet  below  him  his  yacht  was  riding  at  anchor,  looking 
like  a  toy  vessel  upon  a  painted  sea,  and  a  little  group 
of  scattered  lights  showed  him  where  the  hamlet  lay. 
Before  him  was  the  stern,  massive  front  of  the  castle, 
wrapped  in  profound  gloom,  but  standing  out  in  clear, 
ponderous  outline  against  the  starlit  sky.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  light  from  any  part  of  it,  and  the  great 
iron  gates  leading  into  the  courtyard  were  closed.  Nor 
was  there  any  sound  at  all,  not  even  the  barking  of  a 
dog.  It  was  like  a  dwelling  of  the  dead. 

A  great,  rusty  bell-chain  hung  by  the  side  of  the 
gate,  and  as  there  seemed  to  be  no  other  means  of 
communication  with  the  interior,  Paul  pulled  it  vigor- 
ously. Its  hoarse  echoes  had  scarcely  died  away  be- 
fore several  rough-looking  islanders,  carrying  flaring 
oil  lamps,  trooped  into  the  courtyard  from  the  rear  of 


"A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE"  309 

the  building,  and  one  of  them,  drawing  the  bolts,  threw 
open  the  gates. 

"I  have  come  to  see  the  Count,"  Paul  said, address- 
ing the  nearest  of  them.  "  Will  you  conduct  me  to 
him?" 

The  man  replied  energetically,  but  in  a  patois  utterly 
unintelligible.  He  led  the  way  across  the  courtyard 
towards  the  castle,  however,  and  Paul  followed  close 
behind.  They  did  not  enter  by  the  front,  but  by  a 
low,  nail-studded  door  at  the  extreme  corner  of  the 
tower,  which  the  man  immediately  closed  and  locked 
behind  him. 

Paul  looked  around  him  curiously,  but  in  the  semi- 
darkness  there  was  little  to  see.  He  was  in  a  corridor, 
of  which  the  walls  were  simply  whitewashed,  and  the 
floor  bare  stone ;  but  as  they  passed  onward,  down  sev- 
eral passages,  and  up  more  than  one  flight  of  steps,  the 
proportions  of  the  place  expanded.  The  ceilings  grew 
loftier,  and  the  corridors  wider.  Yet  there  was  no  at- 
tempt anywhere  at  decoration  or  furniture  of  any  sort. 
The  place  was  like  an  early-day  prison — huge,  bare, 
and  damp.  Once,  crossing  a  balustraded  corridor, 
there  was  a  view  of  a  huge  hall  down  below,  bare  save 
for  a  few  huge  skins  thrown  carelessly  around,  and  a 
great  stack  of  firearms  and  other  weapons  which  lined 
the  walls  on  either  side.  It  was  the  only  sign  of  habi- 
tation that  Paul  had  seen. 


810  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Suddenly  his  guide  paused,  and  held  up  his  finger. 
Paul,  too,  listened ;  and  close  at  hand  he  heard,  to  his 
surprise,  the  muffled  sound  of  voices  chanting  some 
sad  hymn  in  a  deep  minor  key.  The  rise  and  fall  of 
those  mournful  voices  was  wonderfully  impressive. 
What  could  it  mean  ?  It  was  a  dirge,  a  funeral  hymn ! 
Its  every  note  seemed  to  breathe  of  death. 

"What  is  that?"  Paul  asked.  "Is  any  one  ill- 
dying?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  understand. 
He  only  motioned  to  Paul  to  move  silently,  and  hur- 
ried on.  They  were  in  a  wide  corriJor,  with  disused 
doors  on  either  side,  but  their  feet  fell  no  longer  upon 
the  bare  stone.  A  rough  sort  of  drugget  had  been 
hastily  thrown  down  in  the  centre  of  the  passage,  and 
their  movements  roused  no  more  strange  echoes  be- 
tween the  bare  walls  and  the  vaulted  roof.  At  every 
step  forward  they  took  the  chanting  grew  more  dis- 
tinct, ana  t  last  the  man  stopped  at  the  end  of  the 
passage  bef  'e  a  door,  softly  tapped  at  it  It  was 
opened  e/  :  ~,ce,  and  Paul  found  himself  ushered  into  a 
great,  dimly  lit  bedchamber. 

He  glanced  around  him  with  keen  interest.  If  the 
interior  of  the  room  was  a  little  dilapidated,  it  was  full 
of  the  remains  of  past  magnificence.  The  walls  were 
still  covered  with  fine  tapestry,  of  which  the  design 


••A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE"  311 

was  almost  obliterated,  although  the  texture  and  col- 
ouring still  remained.  The  furniture  was  huge,  and 
of  the  fashion  of  days  gone  by,  and  the  bedstead  was 
elaborately  carved  and  surmounted  by  a  coat  of  arms. 
Further  Paul  had  but  little  opportunity  to  discover, 
for  as  soon  as  his  presence  became  known  in  the  room, 
ft  black-cowled  monk  left  the  bedside  and  approached 
him. 

"  We  have  been  expecting  you,"  he  said  in  Italian, 
"  and  we  fear  now  that  you  come  too  late.  Our  poor 
lady  is  beyond  human  skill!  " 

Paul  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  I  do  not 
quite  understand  you!  It  is  the  Count  of  Cruta  whom 
I  came  to  see!" 

The  priest  started  back,  and  commenced  fumbling 
with  a  lamp  which  stood  on  a  table  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "  Are  you  not  the  German  doctor  from  Palermo  ?  " 
he  asked,  bending  over  towards  Paul,  with  his  keen, 
dark  face  alight  with  suspicion  and  distrust. 

Paul  shook  his  head.  "  I  am  no  doctor  at  all! "  he 
answered.  "  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  my  name  is 
Paulde  Yaux!" 

"  Ah! "  There  was  a  faint,  incoherent  cry  from  the 
bed — a  cry,  which,  faint  though  it  was,  shook  with 
stifled  emotion.  Both  men  turned  round,  and  Paul 
could  see  that  the  other's  face  was  dark  and  stern. 


812  A  MONK  OF  VRUTA 

The  woman,  who  had  been  lying  on  the  bed  still 
and  motionless  as  a  corpse,  had  raised  herself  with  a 
sudden,  spasmodic  movement.  Her  cheeks  were  sunken 
to  the  bone,  and  her  eyes  were  large  and  staring. 

The  seal  of  death  was  upon  her  face,  but  Paul  rec- 
ognised her.  It  was  the  woman  whom  he  had  seen 
last  in  the  drawing-room  of  Major  Harcourt's  house, 
the  woman  whom  Adrea  had  called  her  stepmother. 

He  took  a  sudden  step  forward,  and  she  held  out  her 
hands  in  a  gesture  half  of  welcome,  half  of  fear.  "  Paul 
de  Vaux!  Holy  Mother  of  God!  What  has  brought 
you  here — here  into  the  tiger's  den?  Come  close  to 
me!  Hasten!" 

Paul  stepped  forward,  but  the  priest  stood  between 
them,  holding  out  his  hands  in  a  threatening  gesture. 
"  Sister,  forbear!  "  he  cried  sternly.  "  You  have  made 
your  peace  with  God;  you  have  done  with  the  world 
and  all  its  follies.  Close  your  eyes  and  pray.  Fix 
your  thoughts  upon  things  above !  " 

She  did  not  heed  him.  She  did  not  even  look  to- 
wards him.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Paul,  and  he 
read  their  message  aright. 

"This  woman  wishes  to  speak  to  me.  Stand  aside, 
and  let  me  go  to  her!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  If  she  be  in- 
deed dying,  surely  you  should  respect  her  wishes." 

He  spoke  imperatively,  for  the  priest  stood  in  the 


"  A  VOICE  AND  Fl G  URE  "  313 

way,  and  prevented  his  approach ;  pointing  towards  the 
door  with  a  stern,  commanding  gesture. 

"  There  must  be  no  converse  between  you  and  this 
woman!"  he  said.  "I  am  no  lover  of  violent  deeds; 
but  if  you  insist  upon  forcing  your  way  to  her  bed- 
side, I  shall  summon  the  Count,  and  you  will  pay  for 
your  rashness  with  your  life.  Your  name  and  features 
are  a  certain  death  warrant  in  this  house.  Escape 
while  you  may,  and  pax  vobiscum.  Remain  and  I  can- 
not save  you!" 

Paul  glanced  round  the  room.  Two  monks  were 
standing  with  lighted  tapers  on  the  further  side  of  the 
bed,  one  of  whom  was  mumbling  a  Latin  prayer.  The 
man  who  had  brought  him  here  was  gone.  There  was 
no  one  else  in  the  room,  except  the  priest  and  himself. 

"  You  are  inhuman !  "  he  said  shortly.  "  The  prayers 
of  a  dying  woman  are  more  to  me  than  your  threats. 
Stand  on  one  side ! ' 

Paul  laid  his  hand  her.vily  upon  the  priest's  shoul- 
der. He  was  prepared  even  to  have  used  force  had  it 
been  necessary,  but  it  was  not.  The  latter  moved 
away  at  once,  shaking  his  robes  free  from  Paul's  touch 
with  contemptuous  gesture,  and  calling  one  of  the 
monks  to  him,  Paul  sank  on  one  knee  by  the  side  of 
the  dying  woman,  and  bent  low  down  over  her. 

"  Madame  de  Merteuill,  you  have  something  to  say  t<j 
DM!  *  be  whispered.  What  is  it?  " 


314  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

Her  voice  was  very  low  and  very  faint.  She  was 
even  then  upon  the  threshold  of  death.  Each  word 
came  out  with  a  painful  effort,  but  with  a  curious  dis- 
tinctness. I  am  not  Madame  de  Merteuill  at  all !  I  am 
the  daughter  of  the  Count  of  Cruta! " 

She  paused  to  gather  fresh  strength,  and  Paul  caught 
hold  of  some  of  the  bedclothes,  and  clutched  them  in 
his  fingers  convulsively.  This  woman,  the  daughter 
of  the  Count  of  Cruta!  this  wan,  faded  creature,  the 
girl  whom  his  father  had  borne  away  in  triumph !  His 
brain  reeled  with  the  wonder  of  it!  If  only  he  had 
known  a  few  weeks  ago!  She  should  never  have  left 
the  Hermitage  until  she  had  told  him  everything! 
Was  it  too  late  now  ?  She  was  trying  to  speak  to  him. 
Was  he  upon  the  brink  of  a  tremendous  revelation? 
Was  the  whole  past  about  to  be  made  clear  ?  Oh !  if 
the  old  Count  would  keep  away  for  awhile. 

Her  lips  commenced  to  move.  He  bent  close  over 
her,  determined  not  to  lose  a  syllable.  "  You  know 
the  story  about  your  father,  Martin  de  Vaux  and  me. 
I " 

"  Yes,  yes!  I  know.' "  he  assured  her  softly.  "I  have 
only  heard  it  lately !  " 

"From  whom?" 

"  From  the  priest  who  was  always  with  you  at  De 
Vaux, — fronj  your  son!  "  be  added,  as  the  truth  sud« 


"A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE"  315 

denly  swept  in  upon  him.  Yes;  Father  Adrian  was 
this  woman's  son! 

Her  corpse-like  face  was  fixed  steadily  upon  him. 
Her  words  were  monotonous  and  slow,  yet  they  pre- 
served their  distinctness.  "  You  have  come  here  to 
know  the  truth  of  the  story  he  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes;  I  have  come  to  discover  it,  if  I  can!  " 

"  The  holy  Saints  must  have  brought  you  to  me.  The 
story " 

"Yes?" 

"The  story  is  false!" 

Paul  bent  lower  still,  with  strained  hearing.  There 
had  been  a  plot,  then,  after  all.  Oh,  if  she  should  die 
without  finishing  her  story !  He  looked  into  her  blood- 
less face,  and  his  pulses  throbbed  at  fever-heat. 

"You  know  my  story,"  she  murmured.     "I  com- 

uce  at  the  time  when  I  left  your  father  in  Paris.  I 
had  thought  myself  hardened  in  my  sin;  I  was  mis- 
taken. Eepentance  crept  slowly  but  surely  in  upon 
me  immediately  after  my  father's  visit  to  us.  His 
words  haunted  me.  I  began  to  steal  away  in  the  even- 
ing to  vespers  at  the  Church  of  St.  Cecilia.  One  night 
a  grave,  sweet-faced  priest  stood  up  in  the  pulpit;  and 
as  his  words  sank  into  my  heart  my  sin  rose  up  before 
me  black  and  grim,  and  the  burden  of  it  grew  intoler- 
able. After  the  service  I  sought  him,  and  I  confessed. 


816  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

On  the  morrow  I  left  Martin  secretly  and  without 
adieu.  Count  Hirsfeld  aided  my  escape.  I  came 
here! 

"I  came,  hoping  for  forgiveness;  but  he,  my  father, 
could  not  forget  the  past.  I  found  him  living  in  grim 
and  fierce  solitude,  shunned  and  dreaded  by  every  one, 
ever  brooding  over  my  sin  and  his  dishonour.  He 
made  me  stay,  yet  he  cursed  me. 

"Six  months  after  my  arrival  Adrian  was  born.  It 
was  while  I  lay  between  life  and  death  that  I  wrote 
that  letter  to  your  father.  Afterwards  I  told  my  father 
what  I  had  done.  The  letter  lay  there;  I  dared  not 
send  it  without  my  father's  sanction.  I  sent  for  him 
and  told  him  all.  To  my  surprise,  he  consented.  He 
did  more  than  that;  he  spoke  of  it  to  Count  Hirsfeld, 
and  the  Count  volunteered  to  take  the  letter  to  Eng- 
land. ,  Their  readiness  made  me  worried  and  anxious. 
I  knew  how  they  hated  Martin  de  Vaux,  and  I  was  sus- 
picious. I  called  the  doctor  to  my  side,  and  questioned 
him  closely.  He  declared  solemnly  that  I  could  not 
live  a  fortnight;  it  was  impossible.  I  put  my  suspi- 
cions away.  It  was  for  the  honour  of  his  name  that 
my  father  had  consented  to  receive  Martin  beneath  his 
roof;  there  could  be  no  other  reason.  And  I  myself 
felt  that  the  end  was  near.  My  body  was  cold,  and 
there  was  a  deadly  faintness,  against  which  I  was  al- 


"A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE"  817 

ways  struggling.  I  dreaded  only  lest  he  should  come 
too  late! 

"It  was  only  the  night  before  his  arrival  that  I 
learnt  the  truth.  I  was  lying  with  my  eyes  closed,  and 
they  thought  that  I  was  asleep.  The  doctor  and  my 
father  were  talking  together  in  whispers.  The  crisis 
was  over,  I  heard  them  say.  In  a  few  days  Adrian 
would  be  born,  and  I  should  speedily  recover,  if  all 
went  well.  I  nerved  myself,  and  called  my  father  to 
me.  I  had  overheard,  I  said;  if  Martin  came,  I  would 
not  marry  him.  His  anger  was  terrible.  Both  Count 
Hirsfeld  and  he  had  known  from  the  commencement 
that  I  was  likely  to  recover,  but  they  wished  to  see 
Martin  tricked  into  marrying  me.  I  was  firm ;  I  would 
not  consent!  I  had  written  that  letter  believing  my- 
self to  be  dying.  If  Martin  came,  I  would  not  see  him 
now.  If  he  was  forced  into  my  presence,  I  should  tell 
him  the  truth. 

"  My  father  left  me,  speechless  with  rage.  For  the 
next  week  my  door  was  kept  carefully  locked,  and  no 
one  but  the  doctor  and  the  nurse  were  permitted  to  en- 
ter. Yet  I  learnt  afterwards  all  that  happened.  Marie, 
my  maid,  who  was  slowly  dying  of  consumption,  was 
moved  into  the  principal  bedchamber;  and  when  Martin 
arrived,  she  was  made  to  personate  me.  It  was  the 
priest  who  gained  her  consent ;  the  priest  who  confessed 


313  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

her  and  gave  her  absolution.  His  share  of  the  spoil 
was  to  be  the  De  Vaux  estates,  handed  over  to  the 
Church  if  ever  they  carried  out  their  plot  successfully. 
Martin  came,  and,  as  he  thought,  granted  that  fervent 
prayer  of  mine.  They  stood  around  him  with  drawn 
Bwords;  they  would  not  allow  him  to  approach  the  bt-ii. 
As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over,  he  was  thrust  from 
the  castle. 

"It  happened  that  in  less  than  a  week  Marie  died. 
From  my  bed,  which  faced  the  window,  I  saw  the  little 
funeral  procession  leave  the  castle — my  father  and 
Count  Hirsfeld  the  chief  mourners.  I  saw  Martin  fol- 
lowing away  off,  with  sorrowing  face,  and  I  was  glad 
then  that  I  had  not  deceived  him.  I  saw  him  weep- 
ing over  the  grave  which  he  believed  to  be  mine.  The 
day  afterwards  my  son  was  born. 

"  As  soon  as  Adrian  could  crawl  about,  he  was  taken 
from  me  by  the  priests.  They  sent  him  to  Italy,  where 
he  grew  up  a  stranger  to  me.  When  he  returned,  I 
did  not  know  him.  I  spoke  to  him  of  that  false  mar- 
riage; I  wept  for  his  lack  of  parentage.  He  knew 
everything;  he  spoke  to  me  of  it  coldly,  but  without 
unkiudness.  He  was  a  son  of  the  Church,  he  said; he 
needed  no  other  mother. 

"He  dwelt  for  awhile  at  the  monastery,  and  it  was 
while  he  was  there  that  I  became  suspicious.  My 


"A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE"  319 

father,  and  he,  and  the  Superior  of  the  monastery 
were  always  together.  They  seemed  to  be  urging 
something  upon  him,  which  he  was  loth  to  under- 
take. By  degrees  I  found  it  all  out.  Adrian  was 
to  go  to  England  as  my  lawful  son  and  claim  the 
De  Vaux  estates  for  the  Church.  At  first  he  was 
nn  will  ing;  but  by  degrees  they  won  upon  him. 
Warning  was  sent  to  Martin  de  Vaux,  and  he  came 
here  swiftly — to  his  death!  I  was  kept  a  close  pris- 
oner, but  I  found  out  everything  that  was  happen- 
ing. For  years  afterwards,  Adrian  was  undecided 
whether  to  go  to  England  and  claim  the  estates.  At 
last  he  decided,  unknown  to  me,  to  go.  I  escaped 
and  followed  him.  I  tried  my  best  to  persuade  him, 
but  failed.  I  came  back  here  ill — to  die — to  die!" 

"And  Adrea?" 

"  Adrea  ?     She  knew  nothing !     How  could  she  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  who  Adrea  was  ?  " 

She  seemed  surprised  that  anything  else  could, 
for  a  moment,  occupy  his  mind  after  the  story  to 
which  he  had  listened;  but  she  struggled  to  answer 
him.  She  was  Count  Hirsf eld's  daughter!  He 
never  spoke  to  me  of  her  mother!  It  was  in  Con- 
stantinople. I  am  afraid " 

He  bowed  his  head.  "I  understand,"  he  said 
simply.  The  colour  had  suddenly  flooded  into  his 


320  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

cheeks,  and  there  was  a  mist  before  his  eyes.  Even 
in  that  supreme  moment,  when  her  senses  were  fail- 
ing and  her  ayes  were  growing  dim,  she  saw  and 
understood. 

"  I  wanted  to  be  kind  to  her  always,"  she  fal- 
tered. "  We  would  have  adopted  her,  but  she  would 
not  stay  here.  She  was  unhappy,  and  I  helped  her  to 
escape.  I  had  my  reasons!  " 

He  had  already  guessed  at  them,  and  he  held  out 
his  hand.  He  did  not  wish  to  hear  any  more.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence.  She  was  looking  at  him  with 
dim,  wistful  eyes. 

"You — you  are  very  like  your  f ather !"  she  said, 
painfully.  "  Will  you  kiss  me?  " 

He  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  pale,  trembling 
lips,  and  held  her  hands  tightly.  Her  breath  was 
coming  fast,  and  she  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"  Thank  God  they  brought  you  here  instead  of  the 
doctor!  I  can  die — at  peace  now!  But  you — you  are 
in  danger!  You  must  escape  from  here!  You  must 
not  lose  a  minute !  Oh,  you  do  not  know !  you  do  not 
know!  The  Count  is  cruel — bitterly  cruel!  He  will 
not  come  to  me  although  I  die.  He  will  not  forgive, 
although  I  have  suffered  agonies!  He  is  my  father  but 
he  will  not  forgive  me.  And  you — you  are  in  danger 
if  he  finds  you!  They  have  gone  for  him!  Ah!  I  re- 


••A  VOICE  AND  FIGURE"  821 

l 

member!  Father  Andrew  went  for  him!  He  is  afraid 
that  I  shall  tell  you  the  truth,  and  that  the  Church 
will  not  gain  your  property.  Quick!  you  must  go! 
Kiss  me  once  more,  Paul,  and  go !  Go  quickly !  These 
monks  are  wolves,  but  they  are  cowards !  Strike  them 
down  if  they  try  to  stop  you!  Don't  hurt  my  father! 
Farewell!  farewell!  " 

"I  will  stay  with  you  till  the  end,"  Paul  whispered. 

"  No,  no!  away!  I  cannot  die  in  peace  and  think  of 
you — in  danger.  I  want  to  pray.  Leave  me,  now, 
Paul.  Dear  Martin!  Martin,  my  love — is  it  you?" 

Her  mind  was  wandering,  and  she  saw  her  lover  of 
old  days  in  the  man  whose  hand  she  clasped  so  fran- 
tically; and  Paul,  although  out  in  the  passage  he  could 
hear  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet,  could  not  tear  him- 
self away  from  her  dying  embrace.  A  faint,  curious 
smile  was  parting  her  pallid  lips,  and  her  dim  eyes 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  caught  a  dim  reflection  of 
the  light  to  come. 

"Martin!  Martin!  there  is  a  mist  everywhere — but 
I  see  you,  dear  love!  Wait  for  me!  Let  us  go  hand 
in  hand — hand  in  hand  through  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death.  Oh,  my  love!  it  has  been  a  weary, 
weary  while.  Hold  me  tighter,  Martin!  I  cannot  feel 
your  hand!  Ah!  at  last,  at  last!  Farewell  sorrow, 
and  grief,  and  suffering!  We  are  together  once  more 
— a  new  world — behind  the  clouds!  I  am  happy." 


322  A  MONK  OF  VRUTA 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

"FROM   OUT    LIFE'S     THUNDERS    TO   A    STRANGE,    SWEET 
WORLD  " 

SHE  was  dead,  and,  after  all,  her  end  had  been 
crowned  with  peace.  She  did  not  hear  the  door 
thrown  roughly  open,  the  swelling  of  angry  voices,  or 
the  fast-approaching  tramp  of  many  feet.  Nor  did 
Paul  heed  any  of  these  signs  of  coming  danger;  he 
had  folded  his  strong  arms  around  her,  and  his  lips, 
pressed  close  to  her,  seemed  to  draw  the  last  quivering 
breath  from  her  frail  body.  It  was  only  when  her 
head  sunk  back,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  dead,  that 
he  laid  her  reverently  down  and  turned  around. 

The  room  was  full  of  strange  flashes  of  light  and 
grotesque  shadows  falling  upon  the  white  faces  of  half 
a  dozen  monks.  Standing  in  front  of  them  was  Father 
Andrew,  and  by  his  side  was  an  old  man,  tall  and 
straight,  with  snow-white  beard  and  hair.  He  stood 
in  full  glare  of  a  torch  held  by  one  of  the  monks  be- 
hind him,  and  his  face  seemed  like  the  face  of  a 
corpse,  save  for  the  steady,  malignant  light  in  his  jet- 


"  FR  OM  0  UT  LIFE  '8  THUNDERS  "  323 

black  eyes.  As  Paul  turned  round,  with  his  features 
suddenly  visible  in  a  stream  of  lurid  light,  he  raised 
his  arm  and  pointed  a  long,  skinny  finger  steadily 
towards  him. 

"The  son  of  the  devil!"  he  cried,  his  deep,  tremu- 
lous voice  awakening  strange  echoes  in  the  high 
vaulted  chamber.  "Welcome!  Welcome!  Thrice  wel- 
come!" 

Paul  straightened  himself,  and  reverently  laid  the 
little  white  hand  which  he  had  been  clasping  across 
the  coverlet.  "She  is  dead!  "  he  said  solemnly.  "What 
I  came  here  to  learn  from  you,  I  have  learnt  from  her. 
Let  me  go!" 

He  moved  a  step  forward,  but  the  old  man  remained 
there  in  the  way,  motionless,  and  around  the  door  were 
gathered  a  solid  phalanx  of  monks.  Paul  halted,  con- 
scious at  once  of  his  danger.  The  white  faces  of  the 
monks  were  all  bent  upon  him,  full  of  savage,  animal 
ferocity,  and  a  gleam  of  something  still  worse  lit  up 
the  dark  eyes  of  that  old  man.  Their  very  silence 
was  unnatural  and  oppressive.  Paul  bore  it,  looking 
round  amongst  them  with  questioning  eyes,  until  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Am  I  a  prisoner  ?'"  he  cried.  "  What  do  you  want 
with  me?  Speak!  some  of  you!  Count  of  Cruta,  an* 
ewer  me! " 


824  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

A  dull,  hollow  laugh  echoed  through  the  chamber. 
Paul  turned  away,  sick  with  horror.  It  was  like  being 
in  the  power  of  a  hoard  of  madmen.  The  air  of  the 
place,  too,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  stifling. 
The  perspiration  was  standing  out  upon  his  forehead 
in  great  beads.  It  was  a  relief  when  the  Count 
spoke. 

"You  have  done  well,  Paul  de  Vaux,  to  find  your 
way  here — here  into  the  very  presence  of  a  dying 
woman,  and  force  from  her  lips  a  confession  that  has 
made  you  glad.  You  think  that  you  will  go  back 
now  to  your  country,  and  cheat  me  of  my  well-planned 
vengeance.  You  will  hold  up  your  head  once  more; 
you  will  mock  at  the  Church's  rights.  You  will  go 
your  way  through  the  world  rich  and  honoured ;  you 
will  call  yourself  by  an  old  name.  You  will  pluck  all 
the  roses  of  life.  Worthy  son  of  a  worthy  father! 
Look  at  me!  Who  was  it  who  blasted  my  life,  my 
happiness,  my  honour,  my  name?  A  name  grander 
and  older  than  his,  as  the  oak  is  older  and  grander 
than  the  currant  bush.  When  he  took  my  daughter 
into  his  arms,  he  wrote  the  funeral  of  his  race!  I 
played  with  him,  as  a  tiger  plays  with  a  miserable 
Hindoo!  When  life  was  sweetest  to  him,  I  struck. 
He  came  here  for  mercy ;  I  laughed,  and  I  was  mer- 
ciful. I  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  The  knife  hangs 


"FROM  OUT  LIFE'S  THUNDERS"  335 

side  by  side  with  the  arms  of  the  Crusaders  of  Cruta. 
You  are  his  son!  You  are  the  next  to  die!  You  will 
not  leave  these  walls  alive!  These  monks  know  you! 
It  is  you  who  hold  the  lands  of  De  Vaux,  which  by 
right  belong  to  their  Holy  Church.  You  would  go 
back  to  resist  their  just  claims!  The  good  of  the 
Church  demands  that  you  should  not  go  back !  You 
shall  not  go  back!  The  Count  of  Cruta  demands  that 
you  shall  not  go  back.  You  shall  not  go  back!  You 
shall  be  slain,  even  where  your  father  was  slain,  but 
you  shall  not  creep  back  to  your  hole  to  die!  Your 
bones  shall  whiten  and  shrivel  upon  the  rocks.  Your 
blood  shall  be  an  honoured  stain  upon  my  floor. 
Monks  of  Cruta!  there  he  stands!  He  who  alone  can 
resist  your  just  possession  of  the  broad  lands  and 
abbey  of  De  Vaux.  The  despoiled  Church  cries  to 
you  to  strike.  The  end  is  great!  Haul  him  away!" 
They  were  around  him  like  a  pack  of  wolves,  their  lean 
faces  hungry  and  fierce,  and  their  long,  skinny  fingers 
clutching  at  his  throat  and  at  his  clothing.  One  silently 
drew  a  knife  and  brandished  it  over  him.  Paul 
wrenched  himself  free  with  a  tremendous  effort,  but  they 
were  upon  him  again.  They  forced  him  slowly  back- 
wards, backwards  even  across  the  bed  where  that  dead 
woman  lay  with  her  eyes  as  yet  unclosed.  The  great 
heat,  as  much  as  their  numbers,  was  overpowering  him. 


326  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  and  there  was  a  choking  in  his 
throat.  Again  the  long  knife  was  lifted;  other  hands  held 
him  motionless,  ready  for  the  blow.  He  was  too  weak  to 
struggle  now.  He  saw  the  blue  steel  quivering  in  the 
air.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes. 

What  was  that?  There  was  a  shrill  cry  from  one  of 
the  monks,  and  Paul,  finding  their  grasp  relaxed, 
started  up.  They  were  cowering  down  like  a  flock  of 
frightened  animals.  The  room  seemed  full  of  red  fire. 
The  glass  in  the  windows  cracked ;  it  flew  into  pieces, 
and  a  column  of  smoke  curled  in.  The  door  was  thrown 
open ;  Guiseppe  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold. 

"Fly!"  he  cried.  "Fly!  The  castle  is  on  fire.  The 
flames  are  near! " 

They  rushed  for  the  door  like  panic-stricken  cattle 
before  a  great  prairie  fire,  biting  and  trampling  upon 
one  another  in  their  haste.  Paul  followed,  but  the  old 
Count  stood  in  his  way,  trembling,  not  with  fear,  but 
with  anger. 

"  Cowards !  beasts ! "  he  cried  after  the  flying 
monks.  "  But  you  shall  not  escape  me! " 

He  wound  his  long  arms  around  his  enemy,  but  the 
strength  of  his  manhood  was  gone,  and  without  effort 
Paul  threw  him  on  one  side.  Then,  through  the 
smoke,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Guiseppe. 

"'This  way,  Signer!"  he  said  coolly.  "Follow  me 
closely  I" 


"FROM  OUT  Llfa'S  THUNDERS"  327 

The  old  Count  was  up  again,  and  seemed  about  to 
attack  them.  Suddenly  he  changed  his  mind,  and 
with  a  hoarse  cry,  ran  down  an  empty  corridor.  Gui- 
seppe  and  Paul  turned  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  We  must  fly,  Signer ! "  the  man  cried.  "  He  goes 
to  the  cellars !  He  is  a  devil !  He  will  blow  up  the 
castle!  Cover  up  your  nose  and  your  mouth!  " 

They  hurried  along  wide,  deserted  corridors,  down 
stone  stairs,  and  finally  reached  what  seemed  to  be  a 
circular  underground  passage.  Round  and  round  they 
went,  until  Paul's  head  swam ;  but  the  air  was  cooler, 
and  every  moment  brought  relief.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  cold  breeze.  They  turned  one  more  corner,  and  Gui- 
seppe  stopped.  They  were  in  an  open  aperture  facing 
the  sea,  barely  twenty  feet  below.  A  small  boat  with 
a  single  man  in  it  was  there  waiting. 

"Dive!"  cried  Guiseppe.  "We  must  not  wait  for 
the  rope!" 

Over  they  went  almost  simultaneously.  The  shock 
of  the  cold  water  sent  the  blood  dancing  once  more 
through  Paul's  veins.  He  came  to  the  surface  just 
after  his  guide,  cool  and  refreshed.  They  scrambled 
into  the  boat,  and  Paul  gave  a  little  cry  of  wonder. 
They  were  drifting  on  a  sea  of  ruddy  gold,  and  the 
space  all  around  them  was  brilliant  with  the  reflection. 
High  above,  the  flames  were  leaping  up  towards  the 
sky,  and  the  dull  sing-song  of  their  roar  set  the  very 


328  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

air  vibrating.     Guiseppe,  still  dripping,  seized  an  oar. 

"Pull,  for  your  lives!  pull!"  he  cried  anxiously. 

His  companion  shrugged  his  shoulders.   "  But  why  ?  " 

"Ask  no  questions!     You  will  see!" 

They  did  see.  The}  were  barely  half-way  to  the 
yacht,  when  there  came  the  sound  of  a  low,  rumbling 
from  the  castle.  Suddenly  it  broke  into  a  roar.  Belch- 
ing sheets  of  flame  burst  out  on  every  side.  Huge 
cracks  in  that  brilliant  light  were  suddenly  visible  in 
the  walls,  creeping  in  a  jagged  line  from  the  founda- 
tion to  the  turret.  Fragments  of  the  stone  work  flew 
outwards  and  upwards.  It  seemed  as  though  some 
mighty  internal  force  were  splitting  the  place  up.  The 
men  in  the  boat  sat  breathless  and  transfixed.  Only 
Guiseppe  whispered:  "  It  is  the  old  Count!  He  is  the 
devil!  He  has  blown  the  place  up!" 

There  was  another,  and  then  a  series  of  explosions. 
Fragments  of  the  rock  and  stone  fell  hissing  into  the 
water  scarcely  a  hundred  feet  away.  Great  waves 
rolled  towards  them.  It  seemed  as  though  the  earth 
underneath  were  shaking.  Then  it  all  died  away,  and 
there  was  silence.  Only  the  blackened  walls  of  the 
castle  remained,  with  the  dying  flames  still  curling  fit- 
fully around  them.  The  air  grew  darker,  and  the 
colour  faded  from  the  sea. 

"  It  is  the  last  of  the  Count  of  Cruta,  and  his  castle 
of  horror* V  <eried  Guiseppe.  "  God  be  thanked! " 


'LOVE  THAN  DEATH  ITSELF  MORE  STRONG"  329 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

"  LOVE  THAN  DEATH  ITSELF  MORE  STRONG" 

I  HAD  no  thought  of  writing  in  you  again,  my  silent 
friend.  Only  a  little  while  ago  I  said  to  myself,  the 
time  has  gone  by  when  solitude  and  heart-hunger  could 
drive  me  to  your  pages  for  consolation.  Only  a  little 
while  ago,  it  is  true;  and  yet  between  the  past  and 
future  is  fixed  a  mighty  gulf,  As  I  write  these  words 
I  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  death !  What  death  may 
mean,  I  know  not !  I  have  no  religion  to  throw  bright 
gleams  of  hope  upon  its  dark  mysteries.  I  have  no 
hope  of  any  other  life,  save  the  one  I  am  quitting !  If 
I  am  resigned  and  calm,  it  is  because  the  lamp  of  my 
life  has  burnt  out,  and  I  am  in  darkness.  I  wait  for 
death  as  a  maiden  waits  for  the  first  gleams  of  dawn  on 
her  marriage  day. 

Who  said  that  lov«  was  everlasting?  They  lied! 
Love  is  a  dream,  a  floating  shadow  full  of  golden  lights, 
quenched  by  the  first  breath  of  morning!  Who  should 
know,  if  I  do  not  know?  Who  has  done  more  for  love 
than  I — I  whose  hands  are  red  with  blood,  I  who  this 


380  A  JfONR  OF  VRUTA 

night  must  die?  It  was  for  his  sake,  I  struck — for  his 
sake!  and  now  that  the  hour  of  my  punishment  must 
come,  I  sit  here  alona  and  forsaken,  waiting  for  the  signal 
which  must  end  my  life!  It  was  for  his  sake!  A  death- 
white  face  ris33  up  before  me,  and  a  hoarse,  dying  cry 
sobs  ever  in  my  ears!  I  pass  on  my  way  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  with  no  hope  to  cheer  me, 
forsaken,  friendless,  and  shaken  with  dim  fears!  Am  I 
alone !  He  for  rvliom  I  struck  has  turned  from  me.  Oh, 
the  bitter  cruelly  of  it!  It  was  he  who  taught  me  what 
love  was,  and  y<*i  of  love  he  knows  nothing,  else  I 
would  not  be  hare  to  meet  my  doorr?  alone!  Oh!  Paul, 
Paul!  Oh,  for  one  touch  of  your  haurl,  for  one  kind 
look!  My  hea't  is  sick  and  faint  witl»  i-.;Tigmg!  Am 
I  indeed  so  low  and  vile  a  thing  that  ymi  should  turn 
away  with  never  a  single  word  of  farewell  ?  Oh !  my  love, 
you  are  hard  indeed!  If  my  hands  are  stained  with 
blood — for  whose  sake  was  it?  It  was  only  a  word  I 
craved  for,  Paul!  only  a  Tord — a  look,  even!  Was  it 
too  great  a  boon  to  grant? 

***** 
Oh,  memory!  help  me,  help  me  to  keep  sane  just  a 
few  more  hours — until  the  end  comes.  It  is  a  last  lux- 
ury! I  will  think  of  those  golden  days  wa  spent  together 
ere  the  blow  fell.  Ah!  how  happy  we  were!  Every 
breath  of  life  was  sweet;  every  moment  seemed  charged 


"LOVE  THAN  DEATH  12&SLF  MORE  STRONG"  381 

\\  ..h  the  delicious  happiness!  The  past,  with  its  haunt- 
ing shadows,  and  the  memory  of  that  griu,  deathly 
figure  huddled  up  amongst  the  ferns  in  the  bare  pine 
wood  had  perished.  Background  and  foreground  had 
vanished  in  the  bewildering  joys  of  the  present.  Oh! 
Paul,  that  was  happiness  indeed.  All  inaasures  of 
outsiue  things  seemed  lost!  At  times  I  foiled  it  iiard 
to  recoJJect  in  what  country  we  were!  Oh!  lha  woiid, 
such  as  3urs  was,  is  a  sweet,  sweet  world! 

At  lasn  the  blow  fell.  He  came  to  me  one  ni^'j  sing, 
as  white  as  a  sheet,  with  an  old,  soiled  copy  «j£  the 
Times  in  us  hand. 

"  Bead,  Adrea,  he  cried,  thrusting  it  into  my  hand. 
"A  horrible  thing  has  happened!" 

I  let  tho  paper  fall  through  my  fingers.  An  agony 
of  fear  was  upon  me.  "I  know!  I  know!  Do  not  ask 
me  to  read  it," 

"  You  knew,  and  you  did  not  tell  me!" 

"No!     I— No!': 

There  was  a  deadly  swimming  before  my  eyes,  and 
a  throbbing  in  my  ears.  I  sank  back>  grateful  for  the 
unconsciousness  which  gave  me  respite,  however  short. 
When  I  recovered,  I  was  on  the  verge  of  a  fever;  anc. 
Paul,  seeing  my  condition,  did  not  refer  to  the  new : 
which  had  been  s.-ch  a  shock  to  him.  But  for  an  hour 
the  next  day  he  was  away  from  me,  writing  letters  home. 
When  he  retimed  there  was  a  •  estraiiit  between  us. 


332  A  MONK  OF  ORUTA 

He  was  kind  as  ever,  but  restless  and  unsettled.  As 
yet  he  had  no  suspicion,  but  I  could  see  that  he  was 
longing  to  get  back  to  England.  .  .  .  The  thought 
was  like  madness  to  me. 

Then  came  the  beginning  of  the  end.  We  were 
staying  in  a  villa  which  we  had  rented  for  a  month 
near  Florence,  and  one  day  we  drove  into  the  city  to- 
gether to  do  some  shopping.  Paul  was  at  the  post- 
office,  and  I  was  crossing  the  square  to  go  to  him, 
when  of  a  sudden  I  felt  a  hand  upon  my  dress,  and  a 
hoarse  whisper  in  my  ear.  I  started  round  in  terror. 
A  man,  pale  and  hollow-eyed,  stood  by  my  side.  It  was 
Gomez ! 

"Listen  quickly!"  he  said.  "I  must  not  stay  by 
your  side!  You  are  in  danger  1  The  English  police 
are  upon  your  track !  " 

I  caught  hold  of  the  railing  to  prevent  myself  from 
falling.  Above  my  head,  a  little  flock  of  pigeons  lazily 
flapped  their  wings  against  the  deep  blue  sky.  All 
around,  the  sunlit  air  was  full  of  laughing  voices,  and 
gaily  dressed  crowds  of  people  were  passing  backwards 
and  forwards  only  a  few  yards  away.  Already,  one  or 
two  were  glancing  in  my  direction  curiously.  In  a 
moment  Paul  would  come  out  of  the  postoffice,  look- 
ing for  me.  I  made  a  great  effort,  and  steadied  my- 
self. 


"LOVE  THAN  DEATH  ITSELF  MORE  STRONG  "  333 

"  TeU  me !     What  can  I  do  ?  " 

He  answered  me  quickly,  keeping  his  back  turned 
to  the  stream  of  people.  "You  must  fly!  It  may  be 
already  too  late,  but  in  twenty-four  hours  you  will  cer- 
tainly be  arrested  if  you  are  in  Florence.  I  have 
travelled  night  and  day  to  find  you.  The  holy  saints 
grant  that  it  may  not  be  too  late.  Call  yourself  by  a 
strange  name ;  and  if  Paul  de  Vaux  be  with  you,  see 
tnai  h-a  Alters  his  also.  There  are  already  two  of  the 
detectives  in  Florence  searching  for  you.  A  third, 
with  a  warrant,  may  be  here  at  any  time.  Get  to  the 
furthest  corner  of  the  world,  for  everything  is  known. 
Farewell!" 

He  left  me  abruptly;  and  although  I  felt  that  my 
doom  had  been  spoken,  I  walked  firmly  across  the 
square  to  meet  Paul.  I  would  tell  him  everything. 
He  should  be  my  judge.  My  love  should  plead  for 
me !  It  would  triumph ;  yes !  it  would  triumph !  I 
was  convinced  of  it!  As  for  the  danger  I  was  in,  I 
thought  less  of  that. 

On  the  steps  of  the  postoffice  I  met  Paul.  He  held 
in  his  hand  a  bundle  of  papers,  one  of  which  he  had 
opened,  and,  as  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  a*  me,  I 
saw  that  what  I  had  dreaded  had  come  to  pas^  He 
looked  like  a  man  stricken  down  by  some  sud^  n  and 


834  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

terrible  blow.  He  was  white  even  to  the  lips,  and  a 
strange  light  burned  in  his  eyes. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm.  Was  it  my  fancy, 
or  did  he  really  recoil  a  little  as  he  touched  me? 
"Let  us  go  home!"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  have — 
something  to  say  to  you!" 

We  entered  the  carriage,  which  was  waiting  near, 
and  drove  off.  We  came  together  into  this  room.  It 
was  barely  two  hours  ago.  He  closed  the  door  and 
turned  towards  me.  I  did  not  wait  for  his  question. 
I  told  him  everything! 

Ah  me!  I  had  thought  that  love  was  a  different 
thing.  I  had  sinned,  it  is  true,  but  he  was  not  my 
judge.  So  I  commenced,  humbled  and  sorrowful  in- 
deed, but  with  no  fear  of  what  was  before  me.  But 
gradually,  as  I  watched  his  face,  a  cold,  ghastly  dread 
crept  in  upon  me.  What  did  it  mean — that  blank  look 
of  horror,  his  quiet  withdrawal  from  the  only  caress  I 
attempted?  I  finished — abruptly — and  called  out  to 
him  piteously, — 

"Paul  I  Paul!  Why  do  you  turn  away?  Oh!  kiss  me, 
Paul!  It  was  horrible,  but  it  was  to  save  you!  " 

He  did  not  answer;  he  did  not  hold  out  his  arms,  or 
make  any  movement  towards  me.  I  touched  his  arm ; 
and  oh!  horrible!  he  shuddered.  I  crept  away  into  a 


"LOVE  THAN  DEATH  ITSRLF  MORE  8TRVSG"  335 

corner  of  the  room,  with  a  strange,  burning  pain  in  my 
heart 

"  How  long  is  it,  since  you  saw  Gomez?"  he  asked, 
and  his  voice,  strained,  yet  low,  seemed  to  come  from  a 
far  distance. 

"An  hour! — perhaps  more — I  cannot  tell!" 

He  stood  before  the  door  like  a  ghost  "  I  must  go 
and  try  to  find  him!  Forgive  me,  Adrea!  I  cannot 
talk  now!  I  will  come  back! " 

So  he  left  me.  I  have  not  seen  him  since!  God 
only  knows  whether  I  shall  see  him  again!  My  heart 
is  torn  with  the  agony  of  it!  I  cannot  bear  it  any 
longer!  If  he  is  not  here  in  half  an  hour  I  shall 
end  it! 

***** 

He  has  not  come!     Ten  minutes  more! 
Five  minutes! 

***** 

It  is  done;  I  have  taken  poison!  In  half  an  hour  I 
shall  be  dead!  Oh!  Paul,  my  love,  my  love,  come  to 
me!  If  I  could  only  die  in  your  arms,  if  I  could  only 
feel  once  more  your  kisses  upon  my  lips!  It  is  hor- 
rible to  die  alone!  Already  I  feel  weaker!  Oh!  if 
there  be  a  God  in  Jieaven,  send  me  Paul  just  for  one 
last  moment!  I  do  not  ask  for  forgiveness  or  pardon, 
only  send  me  Paul!  I  am  afraid  to  die  alone!  Never 


836  A  MONK  OF  CRUTA 

to  see  him  again!     Oh!  I  shall  cry  out!     Paul!  Paul! 
come  to  me!     I  do  not  ask  for  heaven,  only  to  die  in 

his  arms,  to— — 

***** 

There  were  sounds  upon  the  stairs,  and  in  the  hall ; 
the  sounds  of  a  man's  quick  entrance  and  approach. 
Adrea,  with  that  passionate  prayer  still  quivering  upon 
her  lips,  dragged  herself  to  the  door  and  listened.  A 
moment's  agonised  apprehension,  and  then  she  stag- 
gered back,  faint  with  joy.  The  door  was  opened,  and 
quickly  closed;  Paul  stood  before  her. 

"Oh!  my  love!  my  love"  she  murmured.  "Take 
me  in  your  arms!  It  is  for  the  last  time! " 

He  moved  to  her  side,  and  supported  her.  "  Adrea," 
he  said  quietly,  "I  want  you  to  change  your  things 
quickly,  and  come  with  me.  There  is  a  carriage  at 
the  door,  and  I  have  chartered  a  steamer  to  take  us  to 
Genoa.  From  there  we  can  sail  to-morrow  for  New 
York.  Gomez  was  right;  you  are  in  danger  here!  Be 
brave,  little  woman,  and  all  will  be  well ! " 

She  clung  to  him  passionately,  with  her  arms  locked 
/iround  his  neck,  and  her  wet  face  close  to  his.  Only 
a  confused  sense  of  his  words  reached  her.  His  tone 
and  his  embrace  were  sufficient 

"And  you?" 

"I  go  with  you,  of  course!      We  shall  begin  a  new 


"LOVE  THAN  DEATH  ITSELF  MORE  STRONG"  337 

life  in  a  new  world!  Come!  "We  have  no  time  to 
lose!" 

"A  new  life  in  a  new  world."  She  repeated  the 
words  dreamily,  still  holding  him  to  her.  Then  a  sud- 
den dizziness  came.  It  passed  away,  but  it  reminded 
her  that  the  end  could  not  be  far  off. 

"  Adrea,  do  you  not  understand?  How  cold  your  lips 
are !  Try  and  bear  up,  love !  We  have  a  long  journey 
before  us ! " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  He  began  to  notice 
that  she  was  like  a  dead  weight  in  his  arms. 

"  It  is  a  long  journey,  love,  but  I  go  alone.  You 
cannot  come,  Paul !  Yet  I  am  not  afraid,  now  that  you 
are  here!" 

"Adrea!  what  do  you  mean?  I  will  not  leave  you! 
Have  courage!  Adrea!  Soon  we  shall  leave  all  dangers 
behind  us!" 

" Paul!  do  you  not  understand?     I  am  dying! " 

Dying !  He  looked  at  her  face,  calm  and  even  smil- 
ing, but  terribly  blanched  and  white,  and  he  saw  the 
empty  phial  upon  the  table.  The  whole  truth  swept 
in  upon  him.  He  staggered  and  almost  fell  with  her. 

"  It  is  best  so,"  she  whispered.  "  I  only  minded 
when — I  thought  that  you  might  not  be  back  in  time. 
I  am  quite — content  now!  " 

"A  doctor!  "  he  cried  hoarsely.  "  I  must  fetch  a 
doctor!  Adrea M 


388  A  HONK  OF  CRUTA 

"  Pl«ase  don't! "  she  interrupted.  "  Long  before  he 
could  come — I  should  be  dead.  It  is  so  much  better! 
Did  you  think,  Paul,  that  I  could  have  you — tied  for 
life — to  a  poor,  hunted  woman — forced  to  live  always 
in  a  foreign  country?  Oh!  no,  no!  I  have  had  this 
poison  by  me  ever  since — in  case — anything  happened. 
Paul,  carry  me — to  the  sofa!  There  is — no  pain — but 
I  am  getting  weaker — very  weak.  My  eyes  are  a  little 
dim,  too — but  I  can  see  you — Paul!  " 

He  obeyed  her,  and  sank  on  his  knees,  with  his 
arms  still  around  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had 
never  been  so  lovely  as  in  those  last  few  minutes  of 
her  life.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  her  resigned  as  she 
was. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  broken  only  by  a  sharp, 
convulsed  sob  from  the  kneeling  man.  Adrea,  who 
heard  it,  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  passed  it  caress- 
ingly along  the  side  of  his  face.  He  caught  it  and 
covered  it  with  kisses. 

"  Paul,  we  have  been  happy  together,  have  we  not?  " 

"  My  darling,  you  know  it! " 

She  raised  herself  a  little,  and  spoke  earnestly. 
"  For  me — it  has  been  like  heaven — and  yet  I  am  not 
sure — that  it  would  have  lasted.  You  would  have 
wearied  soon  I  My  nature  is  too  light  a  one  to  have 
satisfied  you  always.  I  have  felt  it!  I — I  know  it!" 


THAN"  DEATH  ITSELF  MORE  STRONG"  339 

She  paused,  struggling  for  breath.  He  did  not 
answer  her.  He  only  held  her  tighter,  and  whispered 
her  name  lovingly.  In  a  moment  she  re-opened  her 
eyes. 

"So — it  is  best — "  she  continued,  with  a  little  more 
effort.  "Paul,  things  seem  all  so  clear — to  me  now! 
I  think  of  you  in  the  future — it  must  be  a  happy  fut- 
ure, Paul — I  know  it  will !  I  see  you  the  master  of 
that  grand  old  home  of  yours,  up  amongst  the  moors 
you  love  so  much.  I  can  see  you  there  in  the  future, 
living  your  quiet,  country  life — always  the  same,  hon- 
ourable and  just.  I  like  to  think  of  you  there — it  is 
so  natural.  I  want  you — to  forget — these  days  then! 
Remember  that  it  was — I — who — came  to  you,  Paul! 
You  had  no — choice.  I  would  come.  If  there  has 
been — any  sin — it  has  been — mine  only.  You  wet 
far  above — poor  me!  I  have  dragged  you  down—j 
little  way — but  you  will  go  back  again!  You  wii 
marry — some  one  good  and  worthy  of  you.  It  is  my 
— last  wish!  God  bless  you,  Paul,  dear— dear,  Paul! 
I  think  that  I  am — going  now — kiss  me!" 

"My  love!  My  love!  Oh!  that  you  could  live  to 
be  happy  with  me  once  more!" 

"  There  are  steps  upon  the  stairs — I  think — but 
they  come — too  late!  The  book  on  the  table — take  it! 
It  will — tell  you — what  you  do  not  know — of  my  life! 


340  A  MONK  OF  GRUTA 

Farewell !  Sister  Elise !  Is  that  you  ?  Ah !  back  once 
more — in  the  old  convent  garden!  How  sweet — and 
gentle — the  air  is — and  what  perfumes!  You  here, 
Paul!  You  too!  How  dim  your  face  seems — and  yet 
— r-how  happy  it  makes  me — to  see  it.  Dear  Paul!  we 
have  been — BO  happy!  Farewell!" 

*  *  *  *  * 

There  were  strangers  in  the  room,  but  they  came 
too  late.  They  found  only  the  corpse  of  a  woman, 
whose  deadlips  were  parted  in  a  strangely  sweet  smile, 
and  a  strong  man  who  had  swooned  by  her  side  in  the 
utter  abandonment  of  his  grief.  The  hand  of  human 
justice  had  been  stayed  by  God's  mercy ! 


THE   END. 


kck 


